All I Need
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. There was a sharp stabbing in my chest, the bitter taste of loneliness. It f*cking hurt, and I was by no means a masochist, so it had to stop. And there was only one thing I could rely on. One thing that I needed.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I had a writer's block for WIME one day—for chapter 40, actually—and I started writing something entirely new that sort of didn't go anywhere but it helped clear my head. However, when I got started with this, I ended up falling in love with it and I realized that I needed to finish this story. It's a 4-parter, and it's done, so it shouldn't hinder too much progress for my other stories.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**All I Need**

**Part 1**

**I'm dying to catch my breath  
****Oh why don't I ever learn?  
****I've lost all my trust,  
****Though I've surely tried to turn it around**

There were no warnings; no initial signs of things spiraling down the path of devastation, but I suppose I shouldn't have been so fucking naïve to think that Brittany and I could last through our first frat party without screwing things up. I loved a good rave as much as the next guy; all the booze and smoke—it always took my mind off the shit happening in my life—something about the haze that comforted me.

We were still in that fragile state—that honeymoon period—so when she'd left my side to be lured away by her sorority sisters or whatever, I hadn't expected to find her stumbling into the kitchen an hour later, drunk as fuck with half a top barely hanging by her boobs, and throwing herself at me. I liked her, I really do, and in all honesty, she was great to be with, especially since being with her made me feel less of a failure.

"Sam, Sam, Sam," she slurred, her eyes drowsy and glazed over, a goofy smile on her lipstick-smudged lips. "You're a good guy, you hear me? A good, good guy."

She tried to suppress a hiccup, but the all-too-familiar whiff of alcohol in her breath reminded me too much of myself—of the lonely nights I'd spent in the company of those friendly glass bottles—and I realized how incredibly unattractive it was.

"Britt, you're totally wasted, babe."

"I know, I know," she giggles, swaying on her feet. "You're a good guy, but God forbid, you're such a fucking bore, Sam Evans."

That had to be the vodka talking because Brittany hardly ever swore.

"You're always in the damn library all the time, and when—when you're—shit, everything is spinning—not there, you're just cooped up in your room and drinking yourself to obvious—obviously—obliviously—oblivion, yeah."

I stared down at her even as I tried to hold her up before she hurt herself or anything, but I couldn't form the right words in my slightly intoxicated state. Her confession sank in slowly and surely, and I couldn't deny the truth. I marveled in the companionship of liquor and hooch more than I did my own girlfriend.

"Santana said—she said—that I deserve more than this," she babbled on, and then sloppily patted me on my cheek. "And I have to agree, Sammy boy, so I've made my decision; I'm dumping your sorry ass. Bye-bye."

The arms that I had wrapped around her waist instantly dropped in their own accord as the news shattered around me like sheds of glass, too stunned to even noticed that my ex-girlfriend had already staggered back to the raging music and hoard of sweaty bodies. There was a sharp stabbing in my chest, the bitter taste of loneliness. It fucking hurt, and I was by no means a masochist, so it had to stop.

And there was only one thing I could rely on.

One thing that I needed.

Sitting on the countertop were the sweet bottles of promises—singing, laughing—in all shapes and sizes. Imaginary fingers beckoned me forward to the heavenly land of inebriation, and with a familiar burst of excitement, I succumbed to their allure. Grabbing a bottle of Jack, I popped it open and began draining its contents down my throat. The burning sensation was a welcoming treat and when the last drop emptied out, I reached for another.

I felt my senses dull noticeably after a couple more gulps, and by the third bottle, I didn't even know what I was consuming anymore. All I cared about was the escape—the fading of the pain—but the heavy thumping of bass became a bitch all of a sudden. I needed my solitude away from people—away from all of them.

Snatching as many bottles as I could carry in my hands, I dodged my way out of the pest house and headed straight for my car—that old second hand piece of shit—but the fucking key just wouldn't open the damn door. The struggle took ten whole minutes before I was safely inside the driver's seat, and then another five for me to start the bloody engine. It sputtered and coughed out in submission as I gunned down the accelerator, going about an eighty down campus grounds.

The speed felt good with the wind in my hair, but unfortunately it sobered me up too quickly for my liking. One hand on the wheel, I popped another bottle.

And then of course, with my luck—or a lack thereof—I heard the distant blaring of sirens. The red and blue lights appeared in my rearview mirror, closer and closer till the police car signals for my to pull over.

Shit.

* * *

"Alright, son, I'm afraid I'll have to take you in for driving under the influence of alcohol."

The cop was a big burly man—one of those had-been wrestlers, perhaps—and he had a thick moustache to match his imposing demeanor. He ran through protocol, sticking me with the Breathalyzer while his partner scavenged the interior of my car for the rest of the evidence before strapping me with the cuffs.

This was nothing new to me, and seeing that I knew the police station better than my own lecture theatre, I was surprised the officer hadn't known my name. I half expected a photograph of me framed up on the wall too, and when they sat me down by a desk for questioning, I had thought the lady cop was going to roll her eyes.

"You again, Mr. Evans?" she deadpanned, glaring me dead in the center. "What is this; the fourth time?"

"What can I say; I missed you," I gurgled inarticulately.

"Cut the crap, Sam," she snapped. "You know the drill. We'll keep you for the night and have your student counselor pick you up tomorrow morning. I'm sure the school will deal with you after."

"Yeah, yeah."

An apologetic call to my dad, slap him with some empty promises, have him sign a cheque to the dean, and all would be forgotten soon enough.

* * *

"Mr. Evans, it has come to my attention that this is the fifth time in which you have been caught tempering with the law based on the same offence—drinking and driving—and with serious consideration, the school have decided that you acknowledge its consequences."

The student counselor was a straight-assed prick, and he came in the form of William Schuester. He wore clothes as old as his closet-sized office—lots of argyle, woolen sweater vests and mismatched ties—and talked as pretentiously as his antique bookshelf. My buddy Puck liked him some, but I couldn't see the appeal, because he always carried himself with a holier-than-thou self-righteousness.

"Why don't you just skip the formalities and tell me exactly what you mean?"

"Actions will be taken against you for your lapse in judgment," he explained, leaning his elbows on the huge-ass desk.

I scoffed at the prospect and took a moment to amuse myself with an image of serving community service. It was hilarious, really. "I'm sure my dad will have something to say about that."

"As a matter of fact, your father called, actually." The cocky bastard cracked a smirk, pleased as peaches, and I have half the ass to get him fired. "Conforming to the rules, we had him notified of your ill behavior, and it pleases me to inform you that he is not having it this time, and neither is the dean. You won't be able to weasel your way out of this one, so I suggest you wipe that attitude from your face and listen up."

He retrieved a russet brown folder from the side drawer and began flipping through the papers as I made a mental note to spend a little extra on my beloved father's credit card this month. Two could play the game, and the old man knew better than to aggravate me as such. Mom wouldn't hear the end of it, rest assured; she wouldn't allow for her only son to suffer in silence.

"Now, as your student counselor, I can't help but notice the slip in your grades relating directly after your first arrest with alcohol abuse—"

"Abuse is kind of a strong word, don't you think?" I retort, narrowing my eyelids to slits.

Still, he made no attempts to correct himself and promptly ignored my biting remark. "After several counseling sessions with student therapists—some of whom had commented on how you were uncooperative in every way possible—"

I punctuated his statement with a dismissive snort.

"And concluded with a diagnosis of an early stage of addiction to alcohol," he finished reciting the multiple reports. "Mr. Evans, you are by far the worst student I've ever encountered, and don't you dare use the 'I'm dyslexic' line to plead your case. You are here because clearly the school sees something in you—something promising of a young man—but I just can't seem to understand why you'd want to throw it all away for nothing."

Who the fuck granted him permission to lecture me like I was a six-year-old idiot? He clearly didn't know anything about my damn life, so he had no right coming in my face like he just did and pissing all over it.

"Whatever."

William's hard gaze bore into me for a long five minutes, but there was absolutely no way in fucking hell was I backing down from the challenge. I stared right back, wanting him to know that I wasn't the least bit intimidated by a man who used a crimson heart-shaped rock as paperweight.

"I'm going to put you under the school's recovery program," he notified, as though somehow I'd be rattled by such petty news. "It's relatively new; its aim is to help students like yourself rehabilitate without the need to forgo their studies. For a month—or longer, depending on your progress—you will be attached to a sober companion, and he or she will ensure your sobriety state at all times. I will be given daily reports, and should you refuse the assistance, I would have no other choice but to file an appeal to the dean for temporary expulsion."

What the fuck, dude?

"You are a danger and hazard to your fellow peers, Mr. Evans, and my priority in this campus is to provide a safe learning environment for everybody. Don't hate me for that."

In his last parting words, he held a manila envelop out for me to take and said, "You need this, believe me."

Yeah, right.

* * *

Naturally, the first thing I did proceeding to that shit-hole was to ring up my folks—no matter the time zone in sunny Shanghai—and I couldn't give a fuck whether or not Dwight Evans was in an important business meeting. Whatever multi-million-dollar deal he was closing could wait, I was sure.

"Hey, dad."

His reply was curt and emotionless. "Son."

"What the hell are you doing?" I spat out. "A recovery program? Why don't you just dump me in the middle of the Sahara Dessert?"

"It's for the best."

And then he hung up on me.

Son of a bitch.

* * *

"That sucks big time, dude," Puck said, taking a swig of his beer even though his eyes were fixated on the exposed set of boobs on the television. "It's like having a fucking chaperone everywhere you go."

"Don't remind me," I muttered under my breath before polishing off my own bottle of malt. Waiting for the buzz that didn't seem to be happening, I reached for a can of Bud Light instead.

Fuck William Schuester and his rules. After today, I probably wouldn't be able to go within a ten-mile radius of a single bar or liquor store without being escorted by a babysitter, and if all hell was going to break loose tomorrow, then by all means I was going to make the best of it when I could. Celebrate my last chance at being shit-faced wasted, I was going to pump in so much alcohol in my bloodstream, Puck would have to ship me to the hospital to cleanse it all when I was done.

"Should you even be drinking right now?" he pointed out with a tilt of his head.

"Do I look like I give a rat's ass?"

"Seriously, man, you're already in enough shit. I'm sure you don't want your sober companion reporting you for showing up with a hangover."

On the big screen, the dark-haired whore was just about to get her ass screwed doggy-style, and I wondered when it was that porn had started to grow stale. Puck reached over for the remote to mute the shrill over-exaggerated screams. If ever a girl shrieked like that in my ear, I'd probably throw her out of the window.

"At least I'd show up, right?"

Puck arched an eyebrow. "As opposed to not showing up at all?"

"Precisely."

* * *

The instructions found in the envelope were thorough, comprising of a logbook, some tacky brochures and a perfect-bound self-help manual of some sort, and I hated it. Everything in there only served to amplify what I already knew was an ill-fated month of non-privacy in my life.

Reluctantly trudging towards the Student Affairs building, I scowled at passing students, cursing their existence if only to relive some pent-up frustration in mine. It felt like a walk to self-purgatory, and somewhere in Asia, I just hoped that my dad was satisfied. Glancing down at the strip of paper in my hand, I took a deep breath, braced myself for the worst, and entered through the door.

I stopped short, taking in what appeared to be some kind of hotline operations, where everybody sat in tiny cubicles with headphones permanently implanted to their skulls. The light chatter that hung in the air buffered the otherwise clinical appeal of the interior.

Okay, what now?

"Excuse me, may I help you?"

I jumped a little, startled by the woman's sudden appearance—a brunette with straight bangs and an all-too-wide grin that showcased all the teeth in her mouth—and blinked at the intrusion.

"Jesus," I breathed, then cleared my throat to regain a semblance of coolness. "Yeah, I'm here to see Quinn Fabray?"

"Of course!" she chirped enthusiastically, probably from a little too much Prozac in her veins. "Down the hall there, to the right, second room. It's the door that looks like a _Tardis_."

"You watch _Dr. Who_?"

Her smile didn't falter even as her eyes turned into a look of confusion. "Doctor what?"

"_Dr. Who_," I repeated, enunciating each syllable. "You mentioned the _Tardis_."

"Oh, right," she nodded, finally getting it. "No, I don't, but Quinn probably does. I'm Rachel, by the way."

I shook her outstretched hand, and just as abruptly as she came, she was gone.

God, some people were just so fucking weird.

Following her directions, I chanced upon the one I was looking for and smiled in appreciation at the creative décor, but then the reality of the situation came crashing down again, renewing my disdain for this meeting. Begrudgingly, I lifted my hand and gave the door a couple of hard raps, throwing basic courtesy out of the window.

"Come in."

And then I saw her—the most beautiful person I had ever met. Blonde shoulder-length hair curtained her porcelain face like a ring of halo, clipped to the side to hold back the wisps from falling into her gorgeous almond-shaped hazel eyes.

"Can I help you?" Her voice was firm and professional, yet soothing and delicate, but I wasn't convinced that the school would send someone of her experience to do their dirty work. Frankly, I was insulted. William might as well hire my Puerto Rican nanny.

"Shouldn't you be, like, older, or something?"

She blinked at my offensive statement and her long lashes flickered to narrowed slits. "Excuse me?"

Nice. I've always liked them feisty.

Languidly sauntering into the tiny office, I was sorely disappointed with the mundane interior—the plain peach-colored walls and subpar furniture with vinyl blinds that were half opened to allow streams of sunlight to filter in. Save for the _Game of Thrones _mug on the table, nothing in that room actually had character. "What happened to the inside of the _Tardis_?"

"It's under construction," she replied in a clipped tone as she rose to her feet. "How may I help you, sir?"

I ran my index finger over the leather couch situated in front of her desk. "A great tribute to pop culture, by the way."

"Thank you. How may I help you?"

My gaze snapped up to meet hers when I detected the annoyance laced in her words. This was going to be easy. She would probably run out of here crying in ten minutes. "Are you Quinn Fabray?"

"Depends on what you're here for," she retorted, folding her arms across her supple chest.

"A sober companion."

Realization dawned on her flawless features and her piercing glare softened considerably, the burning fire that had been present in her golden orbs simmered to a harmless flame. She circled the table to stand an arm's length away from me and in the close proximity, the sweet scent of her perfume wafted into my nose. "I see; so you're Sam Evans, I take it?"

"You've heard of me?" I smirked.

"Has anybody mentioned to you how your cockiness is such a turn off?"

Gutsy and blunt, too. Perfect.

"I've never had any complains about my cock before."

A crimson flush exploded in her porcelain cheeks, and I knew that my crude words were having an effect on her. In my defense, she actually walked right into that one; she must've known what she was getting herself into. To her credit, though, instead of cowering away in a flustered mess, she stayed rooted on the spot and tried to maintain some pretense of control.

"Take a seat, Mr. Evans, we have much on our plates."

"Just Sam will do," I told her. "Mr. Evans is my bastard of a dad."

She paused for a short moment in mid-reach for the folder on the tray, but otherwise didn't offer to correct my lack of respect for my parental unit. Smart move, for if she had poked at it, I probably would have her pinned to the wall in a single blink.

"First of all, I'm going to ignore the small indiscretion whereby you were obviously intoxicated last night—"

"I'm impressed—"

"Secondly," she swiftly and primly interjected without looking up from the documents. "I don't take bullshit. I don't take degrading comments about my gender or your objectification of women. You don't fuck with me, and I won't fuck with you, deal?"

Didn't say I couldn't _fuck her_.

I offered her a nonchalant shrug. "Whatever."

"Effective, immediately."

"Yes, ma'am."

She slapped the folder shut. "And thirdly, I'm not your babysitter, I'm your companion, which means that I won't dictate your every move. You are free to go whenever and wherever you like. However, I am obligated to give you a call once every hour to check up on you. If you do not, under any circumstances, pick up your phone, I'll have it tracked to your location and when I get there, you'd better be sober. If I find you with a red solo in your hands, make sure you're prepared to get your ass kicked because I'll flush out every last drop of alcohol from your body."

That was a joke, right?

Did she honestly think I was going to be intimidated by a woman—specifically someone who looked like she ought to be waving pom-poms at a football game?

"Whenever possible, I'll be your shadow to ensure that you do not, under my watch, relapse into your bad drinking habits. I'll be available to you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Should the need or urge to consume alcohol arises, give me a call and I'll be there. Any questions?"

I pondered over it for a moment.

Just one: Can I take you right now on that table?

"No, not at all."

* * *

Being in the recovery program meant that I wasn't allowed—with or without permission—to possess alcohol at all times. Boo-fucking-hoo. In another words, Quinn had been thrust with the authority to raid my dorm room as if being dog tailed around wasn't punishment enough. Given the short notice, I hadn't bothered to clean up prior to this impromptu visit. Besides, there wasn't much left to salvage when she'd already discovered the vulgar magazines scattered about on the coffee table accompanying all the porn DVDs.

Just out of spite, she held one up, to my utter glee.

"_Pam and Pim in Pussytown_?"

"Judge me all you want but I think the red-head gives good head."

She dropped the case as though it was laden with diseases before discreetly wiping her hands on her raven-dyed skinny jeans. "That's just disgusting," she muttered under her breath as she headed for the small refrigerator beside the television set. Fortunately, the obscene amount of empty beer bottles strewn about the night before had been cleared, but there was still a cooler full and she was about to find them. "I take it this is your only stash?"

Not even close.

"Yeah," I lied, nodding at the dozen bottles of Heineken.

"Okay, so here's what we're going to do today," she announced, pulling one out and expertly tossing it in my direction. "You're going to make some people very happy with your generosity."

I glanced down at the booze. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We're going to a bar—pick your favorite one—and we're going to drop these off for free."

"The fuck—" I cried out. "But why—"

"Because you don't need it."

* * *

"Well, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

I scorned at her smugness, cursing her name nine ways till Sunday. "You're a hypocritical bitch, you know that?"

She quirked an eyebrow in that uncanny way of hers. "Oh, yeah? How so?"

"You're giving away free beer to the one place that catered the happiest to people like me," I pointed out sourly. "That's akin to advocating the harmfulness of drinking."

"I like how you always blabber shit about the things I don't give a care about," she crooned in amusement. "My job is to ensure that you're clean—you, and you alone. What other people choose to do with their lives is none of my concern, and it shouldn't be yours either."

"Shouldn't there be karma points for that—"

"You can find all the excuses in the world, Sam Evans, but I dare you to walk away from this right now. Turn around, and let your friends go."

I stayed unmoving as I tried to mentally blow her head up with my non-existent powers. My hands were twitching, itching to grab all twelve bottles and split because this was a holocaust to the legion in which I had pledged to the college life of booze and boobs. She was butchering my life, here.

"I fucking hate you right now."

"Well, then I'm doing my job right. Go on," she gestured to the abandoned bottles on the ground. "Walk away from that. I dare you."

Alright, if that was how she wanted to play it, then it would take two to tango.

Challenge accepted.

* * *

I heard the blood-curling scream even before I arrived at the door and immediately barged into the room. Puck spun around on his heel, a mortified expression on his face but otherwise he seemed unharmed. He stood frozen as I did a quick inventory of the space, trying to spot anything that was amiss, until my eyes landed on the empty mini refrigerator.

"Where the fuck are they?" he screeched in an uncanny high-pitch tone. Somewhere in the neighborhood, I reckoned the dogs could've heard him. "What happened to my babies?"

"Relax, Puck, they're not all gone," I calmly told him before pulling out a six-pack from underneath my bed—my own personal emergency kit. "I managed to save these."

"Sweet victory," Puck cheered as I pitched the can in his direction. "Dude, what the fuck is going on? Why are the bottles all gone?"

I took a satisfying gulp of the warm beer and plopped down on the rounded beanbag chair, sighing in relief at the breath of fresh air. "As part of the recovery program, I'm technically not allowed to be in possession of alcohol—or even in the presence of it—so the first thing that damn sober companion did was to conduct a raid, and of course, she found the Heineken."

"What did she do with them?"

"Dropped them off at Five Clovers—for free."

Puck almost choked on the booze. "What the hell—but those are mine too. I could've finished it all."

Rolling my eyes, I threw the empty beer can into the trash bin and opened another. "Let me connect you to my sober companion and you can go cry to her about it, okay?" I paused to swallow a mouthful. "The bitch is a fucking nightmare. She threatened to kick my ass if she ever caught me holding a red solo."

"Is she hot, though?"

An image of her popped in my head—those kissable rose-tinted lips—and despite our mutual loathing for each other, I cracked a smile.

"Smoking."

"Maybe she just needs to get laid."

Noah Puckerman, ladies and gentlemen; always thinking of sex.

"I'd bang her already if she wasn't such a prissy brat," I snorted, reaching for the miniature rubber basketball on the floor and juggling it in my hands.

As if on cue, my cellphone started vibrating in my pocket. I fished it out, saw the name flashing on the screen and snickered. "Speak of the devil," I mumbled. My thumb hovered over the button as I contemplated whether or not I ought to answer it. Perhaps I could test a theory. After all, she did mention that she would hunt me down; why not see if it was true?

"You're not going to answer that?" Puck asked, punctuating his question with a burp.

"I think I'm going to let her sweat it out for a bit."

* * *

An hour later—with the six-pack long gone, and then followed by the couple of bottles of Vodka we bought off Finn Hudson from a floor down—someone was banging on the door. Lifting my arm from my face, I turned my head to find my roommate out cold on the floor, hugging a copy of _Hooters_ to his chest, snoring with a string of drool trailing down his chin. If I weren't so bat-shit wasted myself, I probably would've snapped a photo for blackmail.

I threw the door wide open, only to find myself face-to-face with a fuming Quinn Fabray.

Oh, fuck.

She looked wild with rage, her hazel eyes blazing as she took in my inebriated state and then shoved past me to storm into the room.

"I turn my back on you for ninety minutes and you've already managed to break the rules," she flared up. "What the hell is wrong with you? You didn't think I meant what I said, did you?"

Still relatively drunk, it took me three whole seconds to process that. "No."

"Well, joke's on you, Evans, because you've just lost your trust privileges," she spat out, carefully sidestepping the still-sleeping Puckerman.

"My what?"

"If you can't do this on your own, then that just leaves me with no other choice." Furiously, she stripped out of her bright yellow pea coat and toed off her Oxford booties. Momentarily confused, I stood gaping at her, my mouth hanging open as she climbed into my bed. "Don't get any ideas, pervert. You're sleeping on Noah's bed since he's just so comfortable on the carpet. We'll discuss this in the morning."

Damn, she looked so hot when she was bossy.

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Quinn woke me up in the most unconventional way possible—she grabbed my junk and gave it a tight squeeze, almost crushing my erected penis in her vice-like grip.

"Jesus!" I gasped, springing upright, only to be held down as she straddled my torso and sat down on my chest. "What the—"

"Good morning," she sneered.

"Shit," I groaned, letting my head fall back onto the pillow. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No, but I probably should." Her perfectly round derrière provided for a soft cushion even as she shifted on top of me, and it was then that I noticed all of a sudden how blatantly sexual the position was. In fact, I was half-expecting that Puck was probably filming this right now, if only to see how good we would look together when I make love to her. "You have three seconds to explain yourself."

That was a total burst of my bubble, because those words, they went straight to my gut as though I've swallowed a bucket full of slugs. There was only one person in my life that I would ever owe an explanation to.

I glared up at the blonde. "You're not my fucking mom, Quinn."

"But I'm your sober companion," she argued defiantly.

I was officially pissed and utterly hung over, and it was just unfortunate that she'd pushed the wrong button. Fueled by a burst of agitation, I flipped us over, pinning her to the mattress as I brought my nose a scant of breath away from hers. There was a flicker of fear in her striking hazel eyes as she whimpered ruefully beneath my half-naked body. It was empowering—liberating, almost—to know that I had such control over a woman as dominating as Quinn Fabray.

"Let me repeat myself: You're not my fucking mom."

"Then get off me," she said through gritted teeth, a murderous hint in her molten hazel orbs as they bore into mine.

Just like that, she was back in charge; the change so abrupt, I didn't have time to comprehend it before she had me landing on my back on the carpet floor. Talk about a rude awakening. I barely recovered before she stood hovering over me.

"Fuck you, Sam. I'm here to help you, so the least you can do is to try and work with me."

"I don't need your help," I snapped. "Save yourself the trouble and leave me alone."

**Can you still see the heart of me?  
****All my agony fades away  
****When you hold me in your embrace**

* * *

**A/N:** So there it is! Part one! I know this isn't the conventional type of stories that I've written, it's really different in terms of the style in writing, as well as characterization, but I'm really excited about this one.

Just to clear some things up before I move on: Sam is NOT an addict. He's just abusing alcohol, so nothing in this story is going to delve too deep into that issue of addiction. I don't want to dig a grave for myself by bringing in topics that are too heavy for me to carry—especially so soon after the tragedy in the Glee fandom—so I'm just saying this to be sure. I wrote this way before Cory's passing, so any semblance is purely coincidental. I do, however, would like to share with people that alcohol is not the solution to any problems, and hopefully, with this story, my message would come across.

On the bright side, I'm still completing chapter 45 of WIME, so that should be up shortly.

Song used: "All I Need" by Within Temptation


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you so much for the love, guys! Apologies for the long wait! Here you go!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**All I Need**

**Part 2**

**Don't tear me down for all I need  
****Make my heart a better place  
****Give me something I can believe**

My lecturer was the epitome of a drill sergeant and he insisted that everybody addressed him as Dr. Jones. What a first-class douche. Out of the forty students in his class, he'd decided way back on the first day of school to pick on me—the bratty white boy who rode on his dad's cash—and his ultimate pet peeve was tardiness, so it was the one feat in which I'd perfected by the first week just to stick a pole up his ass.

"Nice of you to join us five minutes earlier than usual, Mr. Evans."

Sliding into an empty chair, I smirked at his pompous face. "My pleasure, sir."

"Well then, I suppose it'll be your pleasure to give us a brief summary of page eighty-six?" The bastard never could take a joke, and for some unfathomable reason, he found some sick pleasure in humiliating me in front of the class. My dyslexia wasn't a secret at all—everybody knew, of course—and it was exactly why nobody believed that I got here on my own fucking merits.

"No, thank you, Dr. Jones," I blankly replied. "I think I'll leave the expertise of outer space to you."

"Are you sure you don't want to grace us with your extensive knowledge of the universe?"

That conceited motherfucker.

"I'm sure, sir."

"Or perhaps your father would like to hire a personal tutor to better suit your busy schedule of hedonism and debauchery," he added spitefully with a bitter undertone that I suppose came with the shit in his life. Everybody knew his wife left him for a French saxophone player.

While everybody burst into snickers, I fixed my best poker face. "That's probably the best idea you've ever had, Dr. Jones. I'll seriously consider it."

"Good, then, because you'll need it for your test tomorrow."

Shit.

* * *

The words and alphabets were a bigger fucked-up mess than usual, made even worse by the abnormal amount of jargon situated in each paragraph. Frustration crept in as I tried to placate myself from an impending blow-up and in return, I gripped the pen tighter in my hand. Dr. Jones shot me taunting grin, aware of my difficulty, though he didn't offer to clarify anything or slow down on his lecture.

God, I needed a drink.

Pronto.

I couldn't take the stress; it was giving me a massive headache, and the only way I could ever study—or marginally, anyway—was when I was high and drunk as hell. Half the time, I'd be so wasted, I'd end up re-reading the same page three times over, but it got me there, and it was amongst those bottles of alcohol—and my dad's generosity to the school's fund—did I earn my spot in college. Sure, it wasn't the best learning method—Dr. Jones probably spat on it—however, it was just what I needed; damn the consequences and Quinn Fabray. She knew nuts about my life, and perhaps if I paid her enough, she'd fake a report to Schuester.

A perfect plan.

Besides, every student in this money-sucking university could use an extra buck or two.

Or a hundred.

The instant class was dismissed I zipped out of that tar pit before Dr. Jones could make another unnecessary jab at my ego.

"Hey, Sam."

Unleashing a string of rich profanities under my breath, I made a quick turn to avoid my torment of a sober companion, ignoring her incessant name-calling to grab my attention as I dodged the sea of students in the hallway. Her voice rang loud and clear above the stagnant buzz, but there was absolutely no way I was going to entertain her blabbering. I thought I'd made it apparent to her to leave me the fuck alone. Was she just immune to instructions?

And then I felt a sharp tug on my wrist.

"Hey!"

"What do you want?" I lashed out, spinning around to face her.

Taken aback by my sudden attack, Quinn immediately retracted her hand, as though she'd just been burned; yet the soothing warmth from her touch still lingered on my skin. Instantly, a part of me regretted snapping at her.

"I'm just doing a regular check—"

"I'm clean, Quinn, alright? Now buzz off, I have a test to study for," I grumbled and stalked off, away from her suffocating presence.

"Do you need help?" she pestered on, tailing after me as I pushed through the crowd. "I'm available if you need a study partner—"

"No, thank you, I'm fine studying on my own."

"Well, I read that you're dyslexic, and I understand that it can be difficult—"

I sighed, a little too exhausted to be irritated. One drama per day was all I could handle. "I said I'm fine, Fabray, please fuck off."

"Sam, I just—"

I halted in my tracks so abruptly; she crashed right into my back. "Okay, here's the deal," I began as calmly as I could in my jumbled state of mind. "I don't need you, alright? I don't need a fucking sober companion sniffing my ass everywhere I go. I'm perfectly fine on my own. Now, what is it going to take to get you off my back? Five hundred? Fifteen hundred? Five thousand?"

Her brows knitted together in genuine confusion. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"How much do you have to pay for tuition fees every month? How about your allowances? Books are expensive and I'm sure that you're just doing this to get paid, so let me make your job a little easier—"

"Are you buying me out?"

"I just want to settle this once and for all—"

"I don't believe this," she fumed, indignantly throwing her arms up in the air. "You arrogant son of a bitch. You seriously think that I'm doing this for my own benefit?"

"Look, I don't give a damn about what your intentions are, but I want out right now," I told her sternly, taking a step forward so that we were but three feet apart. "I'll sign a cheque of any amount you need if you'd just fake a positive report to William Schuester—"

Quinn narrowed those doe-like eyes scornfully. "Don't you mean your dad will sign the cheque?"

"Okay, now is not the time for technicalities," I countered back. "How much do you want?"

"Nothing," she sputtered out, her rosy cheeks flaming red. "Keep your God damn money, Sam Evans. I don't need it, and then maybe you'll be able to explain to William Schuester why you lost a sober companion."

* * *

Of course, it was back to the bottle for me—my freedom from the confines of a sober companion—though somehow, I didn't feel like celebrating, which was such a fucking shame because I'd just spent a bomb on some fancy liquor. What a waste; and where the hell was Puck when I needed him? This victory party wasn't made for a headcount of one, but since it was just going to be the four walls and me, the only productive thing to do was study for the stupid test.

Fuck Jones.

I wanted to crush him so bad at his own sick joke and wipe that shit-eating smirk from his face, but nothing was working at the moment—not even in the company of my beloved Smirnoff—and it frustrated the hell out of me. God, I needed to get out of this dungeon. Perhaps some polluted campus air would help.

A quick check on my cellphone made me frown.

Nothing.

Not a single response.

She had rejected all of my calls earlier on and hadn't bothered to reply any of my text messages. If Quinn were any other chick, I wouldn't even have bothered, but she wasn't. Damn, that pissed me off the most because I got exactly what I wanted. It didn't make sense.

Nothing made sense.

Fuck Quinn Fabray.

Haphazardly, I threw on a pair of tattered old sneakers. Mom wouldn't approve of it—would probably personally escort me to Berluti or Santoni, or some other Italian-sounding name for a new pair—but after ruining one too many pairs with puke stains, leather just sort of lost its novelty. As I was about to reach for the doorknob, however, it burst open and my roommate swaggered in with that pompous Mohawk and aviator shades.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," I shrugged.

He sniffed the air in the room. "Have you been drinking again?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Dude—"

I held a hand up, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Don't give me that shit."

He shook his head and stared at me for a moment too long. Heaven forbid, he actually seemed a little concerned. "You look like crap."

"I fucked up, Puck."

"What did you do this time?"

"I tried to bribe Quinn with money to leave me alone."

The judgmental way in which he was regarding me felt like an actual slap to my face, though he reserved the tone and chose to remain neutral. "Did it work?"

"Not only did it not work, I'll probably have to explain myself to Schuester. If I'm lucky, maybe my dad will finally ship me off to the army and have his wish after all."

"Have I ever told you what a dickhead you are?" he retorted.

"All the time."

"Good. Don't forget it."

* * *

I stood in front of the door a little longer than necessary, but in my defense, it wasn't as though I was imperceptibly thrilled to be there. Prolonging the inevitable was actually an in-built mechanism that came with every standard-born cynic. William Schuester's name glistened insolently underneath the fluorescent light, and in an effort to withhold the pressing urge to rip it off, I clenched my fist a little tighter. It shouldn't faze me—I had been expecting it after all—however, being summoned to the gates of hell twice in a span of a week was a fucking pain in my ass.

Forgoing basic courtesy altogether, I barged into his office without bothering to knock.

"Sam—" he began in a chastising manner, a disapproving frown on his stern face.

"Make it quick," I snapped, flopping down on the provided seat. "I have somewhere else to be."

"Your sober companion—"

A fucking smart way to start, indeed.

Jutting my chin out, I glared back defiantly at him. "What about her?"

"Quinn is one of the best that we have around campus." The bastard leaned back in his huge-ass chair and narrowed his beady eyes at me, almost condescendingly, and I mused upon how fucking sweet it would be if I jumped over his fort of a table and socked him in the nose. "She's tough, and I know for a fact that when she told me that she was withdrawing from her duties as your sober companion due to personal reasons, it wasn't because she had other commitments to attend to."

So my dear ex-sober companion didn't tell him.

All was not lost, it seemed. She did me a massive favor, whether or not she knew it. If I played my cards right, I might be able to salvage this black hole.

"What did you do to her?"

I could only hope that my expression gave nothing away.

"I didn't do anything."

Only a retarded idiot would believe me, with how blatant of a lie it was.

"You do realize, Mr. Evans, that you'd just sunk your only lifeline," he goaded dangerously, and if I didn't know any better, I would think that he was enjoying every second of this shift in power. "I had informed you before that I am entitled to file an appeal to the dean for temporary expulsion should you refuse assistance, and as I recall, you had no violent objections to that."

Leveling his gaze, I quipped back. "Violence is an offense, is it not?"

All traces of amusement left his features. "You have two options right now, Mr. Evans. Number one, I'll have your father notified about being expelled, or number two, you find yourself a sober companion and quietly continue with your rehabilitation process. The choice is yours."

The army or Quinn Fabray?

What kind of a fucked-up choice was that?

* * *

The main library was a fitting place to be—tall ceilings, unlimited thinking space, endless shelves of books and articles—the house of vast knowledge so metaphoric to what I needed to do at the moment. I had a pre-game ritual each time I stepped into such a great hall, and this instant was no different than the rest. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I allowed for the musty scent of paper and leather to permeate my senses.

It was stimulating, to say the least.

It was all I needed.

I parked myself down on an unoccupied armchair and sighed in satisfaction at the comfort. Anybody could say shit about the school as much as they wanted, but damn, the furniture in the library was the one thing that had never failed me. After stretching my arms and cracking my neck, I pulled out the encyclopedia-sized textbook from my backpack.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Searching for Quinn wasn't exactly navigating a treasure map to the Ancient Mysteries. She was so damn predictable; it didn't even surprise me to find the light in her incomplete _Tardis_ still bright in the late hour. I rounded the Student Affairs building and walked right in, only to have that Rachel girl stop me in my tracks, her face merely inches from mine.

"Jesus."

"We're closed," she informed me, clutching her hands behind her back.

"Yeah, is Quinn in?" I asked, more for her sake than mine as I glanced impatiently past her barely-obstructing height.

"We're closed," she repeated with a clipped tone and folded her arms across her less-than-impressive chest. Somebody should introduce her to a push-up bra. "You may make an appointment with her tomorrow if you like."

"Look, this is really urgent. I need to see her."

"Do you have an appointment?"

I frowned. "No."

"Then I'm sorry, but you're going to have to come back tomorrow."

Was this girl fucking serious right now?

"Yeah, not going to happen." I made an attempt to side step her, though she was swift on her feet and successfully blocked my path. Glowering down at the Hobbit, I noticed a challenging glint in her dark eyes and realized that she was probably one of those girls who just couldn't grasp the simple concepts in life. "I was a starting quarterback."

"I have a blue cord in Capoeira."

"Is that suppose to mean something to me?"

She tilted her head to the side. "It should."

"I'll fucking tackle you to the ground, no questions asked."

"Don't run to dear old dad when I kick your butt—"

A loud bang interrupted what could possibly be the most ridiculous bicker I've ever had with a member of the female species.

"What on earth is going on out here?"

And there she was, in all her glory; Quinn Fabray stood outside of her office, regarding the situation with pronounced annoyance and mild curiosity, a hand planted firmly on the swell of her hip. Her cat-like eyes pierced straight through me in a blaring siren that pretty much summed up to an equivalence of punching me in the nuts. She was probably thinking of a million and one ways to shun me out, but all I could think of was how fucking gorgeous she looked in that dress and blazer.

"He couldn't take a hint," Rachel broke the deafening silence.

Her gaze still locked onto me, she calmly spoke. "Get out, Sam. I thought I made it clear that our business is done."

"You need to listen to me—"

"I don't need anything from you," she shot back venomously.

"But I do."

She took deliberate, purposeful steps forward—those so practiced, I reckoned she might have been one of those popular bitches in high school—moving closer until she was but three feet away from me. The sweet scent of her perfume engulfed me in a way I couldn't comprehend, and all of a sudden, she was everywhere, quietly analyzing my intentions.

"Get. Out."

* * *

Hangovers were pretty much old friends to me, but I suppose I was stupid enough to have one on the day of a fucking test. I dragged my feet into class, those dreadful gnomes in my head pounding away with their damn jackhammers, and all I wanted to do was to go back to bed. I could, of course, because that's just how much I gave a shit about Dr. Jones, but that would mean that he'd won. Hell would freeze over before that happened.

"Good morning, Mr. Evans," his low timber boomed in my ears like an exploding hand grenade. "Late again, I see."

"Shut up, Clayton," I grumbled, snatching the test booklet from his hand on the way to my seat. After carelessly tossing my backpack down on the carpeted floor, I grabbed a blue ballpoint pen from the dude sitting beside me and uncapped it. The dumb clock on the wall indicated that I had forty minutes to save myself.

Game on.

* * *

Puck was out when I got back—he left a scribbled note on the television with the name 'Lauren' on it, and then drew a vulgar picture of a hairy penis right below—so I decided to go hang out with Finn from the third floor instead. He always had great booze, anyway, and I sure as hell needed one after that grueling test.

"Are you okay?"

I swallowed the bitter liquid and held back a grimace. "Don't give me that shit. I fucking hate it when people ask me that."

"Sorry, dude," he snorted unapologetically, taking a swig of his Heineken. "But didn't you, like, got caught for DUI?"

"Not driving now, am I?"

"Where's that sweet baby of yours anyway?"

I sneered into the bottle. "That piece of scrap?"

Finn just sort of shook his head, an amused—and slightly envious—grin spread across his face. "Not all of us can afford your spanking Porsche, Sam."

So fucking true.

"Temporary suspension," I scowled, now utterly pissed off because my ride was my only salvation away from this ass-swiping boot camp. "The cops left it at the pound. I swear, if I see a single scratch on my car, I'm going to sue each and every one of their fucking doughnut-eating butts."

"You're such a spoilt brat."

His flippant remark earned him a sharp kick to the side of his leg, and honestly, if it had been some other bone-headed idiot spewing rubbish like that, I would've trashed the son of a bitch into a pulp, but Finn—fortunately for him—was sort of like a cousin I never wanted.

"So I heard you're hanging out with Quinn Fabray," he casually dropped that in, trying to seem inconspicuous, but God, he's such a terribly lame actor. He was one of those people destined to be type casted as a fucking Christmas tree.

"Hanging out is a loose way to put it."

"Are you sleeping with her?"

The beer went down the wrong pipe, sending me into a coughing fit as I choked and sputtered to regain my equilibrium. A sharp zing shot straight up to my head like a freaking lightning bolt from Zeus himself.

"Jesus," I wheezed.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

I felt like slapping the smugness off his pretty face.

"But you want to, right?" he added in that all-knowing tone.

"It's more fun ruffling her feathers up."

"I know half the guys in this campus wouldn't pass a chance to tap that fine piece of ass."

I snickered with a roll of my eyes. "Are the other half gay?"

He slid his gaze over, regarding me with interest. "Don't tell me you don't want to fuck her senseless."

"Believe me, Finn, I do."

* * *

When her eyebrows leapt up for a split second before they furrowed into a loathing scorn, I knew that I was absolutely the last person on earth that she had wanted to find standing on her doorstep. I blinked, waiting for the blurred images to focus and shamelessly began ogling her hot body. Clad in a skimpy tank top and varsity shorts, Quinn Fabray looked every bit as ravishing and exquisite as a strawberry dipped in fine Belgian chocolate.

The analogy transformed into an image, now lodged in my skull, and I knew it was the alcohol talking. I must've had a death wish coming to her at this hour, drunk out of my ass, but fuck it all, I was glad I did.

"You have a lot of nerve, Sam, showing up like this," she spat out spitefully. "I should have you reported."

I leaned against the frame, feeling the ground sway beneath my feet. "You're a fucking tease, Quinn, do you know that?"

"That's it; I've had enough of you."

She made a move to shut the fucking door in my face, but even slightly inebriated, my hand shot out reflexively to hold it open. It wasn't going to be that easy to get rid of me, and she was about to experience that first hand, especially when I shoved the door wide open and crossed the threshold to invade on her personal space. Her icy glare didn't falter even as she backed away, but the intensity was fast sobering me up, enough to comprehend the precarious situation—the dangerous territory in which we were treading on a single string of glass. The thickness in the air hung like a blanket of red, the energy charged with a scorching sexual tension, and I wondered if she could feel it too.

I needed to know.

"You know something, Quinn? Ever since the first time I laid eyes on you, I had wanted to take you right there on that table in your office," I growled, low and calculated.

The bleak look on her face vexed me—fucking ripped me into shreds—but she neither made a sound nor made an attempt to escape. There was a bubbling stubbornness in her pride that shone through the windows to her soul that caused an unmentionable stirring down south, and I knew all at once that I wanted to hear my name on her luscious lips when she cried out to the heavens in sweet pleasure. In one hasty move, I grabbed her by the waist and hauled her against my aching front.

A gasp escaped her throat. "Sam!"

"Sleep with me, Q."

"No, never," she whispered, her breath labored, and yet she stayed unmoved in my arms.

God, she felt so fucking amazing.

"Your mouth is saying one thing, but your body is saying another," I husked and experimentally ground my hips into hers, hissing when I felt her fingernails dig into my shoulders. "You liked that?"

"Sam—"

Throwing caution to the wind, I dove in and seized her soft lips between my beer-stained ones; kissing her as brutally as I possibly could and unleashed every pent-up frustration that accompanied her since the first day in her office. She fought me—feisty and oh, so fucking hot—her palms pushing against my unyielding chest, but I wasn't about to concede—not when she tasted of cheesecake and ice cream. It wasn't nearly enough for me; I wanted more, so I forcefully thrust my tongue in.

"No!"

She tore her lips free, and before I could register her rejection, a sudden, blinding pain sears through my crotch that left me reeling in shock.

"Son of a bitch," I groaned.

And then she slapped me.

The whipping sound rang high in my ears as I staggered to regain my balance.

"Stay the hell away from me, Sam Evans."

* * *

Puck took one look at the bag of frozen peas nestling on my groin and broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Fucking douche; some friend he was. Narrowing my eyes into slits, I reached for a pillow and viciously threw it at his moronic head.

"Do I even need to know?" he practically howled.

"I probably deserved it," I muttered in reluctance.

He had that shit-eating smirk that I hated so much. "You tried to get into Quinn's pants, didn't you?"

"That's none of your damn business, Puckerman."

* * *

"I've finished grading your tests last night—"

Because he clearly had no semblance of a life, and possibly lived to see that his students were sufficiently tormented for some sick fetish or another. I drowned out the rest of his speech—the usual long-winded lecture about how the tiniest difference in decimal points could result in catastrophic consequences; blah, blah, blah—and tried to formulate the best plan to apologize to Quinn, even though a huge part of me wasn't insignificantly sorry for what I did. It was a battle scar well worth it to claim those soft lips and feel her lithe, sexy-as-hell body in my arms.

Regardless—and for all instances—I was very aware what a dick I had been, and I suppose I was lucky to leave in one piece. I had no doubts that she would call that nightmare brunette gal pal of hers to whip my ass in a heartbeat if I had stayed.

"Mr. Evans."

The test booklet landed on my table with a purposeful thud—a sound laced with disappointment and mockery—and I glanced up at Dr. Jones' cocky-ass face as he cracked a conceited grin. Perturbed by his creepiness, I shot him a silent glare to buzz off, and when he sauntered to his next victim, I finally took a peek at my score.

D.

"Just fucking perfect."

* * *

Five Clovers was my second home. I had spent way too many nights drowning in there, the bartender—some Irish dude called Rory—knew me by name and had my roommate's cellphone number on speed dial. Tonight, I needed to be alone, just wallowing in my failure and misery—no Puck, no Quinn—while I refused to accept the fact that I was possibly about to flunk a fucking class.

If my life was about to end with my tail being dragged by dear old dad, I wanted to go out with a bang—something nostalgic to remember the moment by.

I headed straight for the bar, slid into one of the high stools and began rapping my knuckles against the oak surface of the counter, waiting impatiently for Rory to finish up on his latest customer and attend to me.

"Hi, Sam," he greeted gleefully with a full set of teeth, his thick accent barely comprehendible. "Haven't seen you in a while, lad. How've you been?"

"Peachy."

"It'll get better," he said, suspiciously optimistic for a foreigner working in a shady establishment that didn't bother carding underaged patrons. "What can I get for you?"

My usual would entail four pints of beer, perhaps a scotch or two, and if that didn't do the damn trick, I'd finish off with Vodka, but that wasn't going to be fast enough for me. "Six shots."

"Six?" Rory repeated skeptically.

"You know what, you're right. Get me twelve shots."

I needed it.

* * *

I heard voices—muted and afar—amidst the bass thumping and guitar riffs.

There was something so fucking familiar about them, and I realized hazily as black turned to gray that they were calling out to me. Why the hell would anybody be saying my name? I hadn't dropped off the face of the planet, though it sure felt like it. Everything was fuzzy, like static and white noise intermixing into a giant pool of buzz.

They're closer now—a chick and a dude—and God, could they please shut the fuck up?

I felt a hard tug on my elbow, and then warm fingers were wrapping themselves around my arm, but I struggled aimlessly to release myself of the constricting hold. Who the fuck were these people trying to violate me? Couldn't a person grieve in peace?

"Sam? Sam?"

"He's out cold. Let's just get him back to the dorm, okay?"

What in the fucking hell?

There was a persistent grip on my shoulder—sharp nails that kept penetrating into my flesh and bones—and it stings like a bitch, but I couldn't even begin to feel my fingers. They were heavy and numb, and I wondered if they were still attached to my body.

"I'm going to kill you, Noah."

"Yeah, whatever, Fabray."

Fabray?

Quinn Fabray?

What the fuck was she doing there?

It didn't matter.

There was something I needed to tell her.

"I'm sorry."

**Don't tear me down  
****You've opened the door now, don't let it close**

* * *

**A/N:** There you go, guys; part 2! It's got everything in the mix—Sam's potty mouth, Quinn's sass and a steamy Fabrevans scene! Whoots! As much as I know many of you would love to jump straight to the sex, that would have to wait. Patience is a virtue, after all :P

**Dosqueen67:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad to know that you really like it so far! Yeah, Sam and Quinn are totally different in this story. I love witty banter, and I love character developments, so Sam and Quinn in a lot of my stories are actually really different from the ones on the show, especially Sam. Alcoholism is a little too serious for my writing, and I don't think I'll be able to handle the weight of tackling such a heavy matter. Thank you for your trust in me! I'll try my very best not to let you down! Cheers!

**CarefreeCanary:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad that you find originality in the story! The concept has obviously been tapped on before by some other author out there, I'm sure, but it's nice to know that I've made it my own! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Quams:** Hi there! LOL! That line of gibberish totally made my day! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked how chapter 1 played out, especially since Sam and Quinn are a little different from what I've always written them as. I suppose since I'm trying to tackle something more mature—and high school sometimes seems a little restrictive in terms of what I want to write—I had to use college as a platform. As a writer, I think it's my duty not to corrupt the younger audience, LOL! Anyway, I'll only be updating this once a week because work has been crazy lately, so I apologize for that in advance! Quinn is in college and they are the same age, which was why Sam was surprised to see that she's his sober companion instead of someone older. Hope that cleared it up for you! Cheers!

**HungerFabrevans:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! Glad you liked it!

**B2stB2uty:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and leaving those wonderful comments! I really appreciate it! Quinn and Sam are the same age; they're sophomores. Hope that clears it up!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Glad to see you on board! Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing my stories! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked how I've written Quinn and Sam. They're so much fun to play with! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**SamEvans17:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked how the characters are written, considering how different they are from their characters on the show! Cheers!

**Nicole:** OMG! Girl, I really, really didn't mean it! Shoots! I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to offend you! Oh, God, I feel so bad about it; I'll amend it right away! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing anyway! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Guest:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Glad you love Quinn! She's so sassy!

**Ashley:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! This story will be told in just Sam's point of view because I find great amusement in twisting his thoughts. LOL! No, seriously, I've written a couple of stories in Quinn's point of view, and besides WIME, I thought it would be nice to write another story from his perspective. Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Gleerox:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked it so far! I love Puck, because he's such a terrible influence, but even so, he's such a caring friend, so you'll definitely see more of him :D You'll get a rough idea of his and Quinn's friendship in the next chapter :D Yeah, I love writing strong, independent Quinn because she becomes sassy, and I'm all for girl power! I love aggressive Sam too! They've got so much sexual tension going on, it's bound to explode at one point of time (hint, hint). Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**OvergronFeels1:** Hello there! Wow! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a nice, long review! I really appreciate it! Quinn is a student in the college as well. She's the same age as Sam, and her job is basically to make sure that he stays sober and kicks the habit of drinking. I suppose every guy has an ego, you know, and it's like 'who's this chick coming in and dictating my life?' sort of feel for Sam. Why should he bow down to a girl, right? Ego, and male pride. Yeah, Quinn genuinely cares, although she doesn't show it in the best way. I'm glad you liked Puck! He's such a good edition to the story because he's such a bad influence on Sam, but he's also a caring friend. You'll get to see a bit of backstory between him and Quinn in the next chapter. Sam's dirty thoughts are so much fun to write and delve into, and it's hilarious because I'm a girl, and I'm not sure if those thoughts actually really apply to guys (although Sam is kind of a reflection of my boyfriend in some ways, and he's my muse for when I'm writing those thoughts). You're right, though, Sam is more sensitive than Puck, and it's probably why he's such an asshole half the time. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**J.D. Toulouse:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked the story so far! LOL! Awww…thank you for the wonderful comments! Basically, I just write whatever I feel like writing, and I just got lucky that you guys like it! :D No, really, half of my stories sometimes begin as a sort of ranting, and it just grew into something. I'm glad you liked Sam's point of view! Yeah, I reckoned my other 4-parters are told in Quinn's point of view, so I decided to switch because I actually had fun when I write Sam in WIME. I love cocky Sam. He's just so full of himself! THA is on hiatus at the moment because I wanted to finish with WIME first. I love THA, that's my precious baby, so I wanted to write that when I'm not distracted with other stories. Don't worry, though, I'm not leaving it out to dry. I just want to pay more attention to it than I do with my other stories :D Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Stelenaandfabrevansforever:** Hello there! Thank you for reading!

**OhHeyAl:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked how I've portrayed Sam and Quinn :D They're so much fun to write, especially with all the witty banter and sexual tension! LOL! I'm pretty sure there's an idea where all this is going to lead, so that itself is a dead giveaway :P Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

Song used: "All I Need" by Within Temptation


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Third installment up!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**All I Need**

**Part 3**

**I'm here on the edge again  
****I wish I could let it go  
****I know that I'm only one step away  
****From turning it around**

Motherfucking son of a bitch.

It had to be one hell of a party last night, if the thundering palpitations in my brain were any indication at all. Stirring back to consciousness was about the most eventful thing to do besides attending the funeral of somebody you didn't know. The sun was burning the side of my face, which kind of led me to believe that my idiot of a roommate had probably left the blinds open again—possibly on purpose—and I made a mental note to stab him in the eye. Either way, the heat was about to cause some uneven tanning, so I did the one logical thing.

I rolled over.

And ended up unceremoniously sprawled on the floor, grunting as I got tangled up in my russet-colored sheets.

"What the fuck—"

"So the egomaniac lives."

My spine stiffened at the sound of her melodious voice, laced with enough vermin to kill an elephant, and I was almost afraid to turn my head around because I knew that it wasn't going to be pretty—regardless of how insanely gorgeous Quinn Fabray was. Wincing from the throbbing pain in my muscles, I struggled to move even a fraction of my body.

"Could've been worse," Puck added for my benefit. "At least he didn't wet the freaking bed this time."

Douchebag.

I flipped him off with a menacing scowl upon my lips. He smirked, and then made a big show of rolling his fucking eyeballs that I was fairly certain was mostly for the blonde's joyful entertainment. Puck was such a shit-eating pig like that.

"Okay, well then, I think I'm going to go—"

"No, Quinn, wait," Mr. Mohawk blurted out, and it sounded desperate enough for me to assert some effort to lift my head. He had one hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her as she was heading for the door, and all I wanted to do—severely hung-over or not—was to break his arm for even laying a finger on her. After non-discreetly stealing a glimpse over his shoulder, Puck leaned in and murmured something inaudible in her ear that made her sigh in aggravation.

That rat bastard.

"Fine," she spat out, and without another word, stormed out of the room.

He turned to me warily. "There's a bottle of Gatorade and some aspirin on your nightstand. I'll be right back."

Even with a barrier between us, it wasn't as though the school had the luxury of providing heavy soundproof doors. If anybody in the floor were having a bang fest, half of the dorm would be able to enjoy its fruits—it was like porn with surround-sound—and most of the time, my ears were screaming in torture because listening to a dude yelling, 'Betty, who's your daddy? Who's your fucking daddy?' for an hour was starting to scar my innocence. Those nights usually ended up with long lectures regarding tardiness the next morning, but the noise-canceling headphones was the only thing that could save humanity.

Whatever, I digressed.

From inside, I could still hear Puck and Quinn's conversation—albeit rather muffled—without even trying to. Uncapping the bottled isotonic drink, I tossed back the two pills and took a couple of gulps to wash them down.

"Come on, Quinn. You and I, we go a long way back from high school, and I know that I was a jerk for all those slushie facials, but Sam needs this. He can't be expelled."

Well, that was new. I had no idea they had a history together.

And what the fuck was a 'slushie facial'?

I swear to God if it was one of those kinky shit—

"But he's such an ass!"

Gee, Quinn, perhaps you should shriek a little louder? I didn't think the people in Alaska could hear you.

"News flash: Sam's an ass to everybody," he retorted, the sarcasm dripping in his tone. "You're not so special."

"He slobbered all over me."

"Take that as a fucking compliment and move on, Fabray. You already know that every breathing male in this campus wants a piece of that tight pussy."

Seriously, did they not fucking know that I could hear every damn word they said?

"It moves me how much you're trying—and failing—to defend your roommate."

I scoffed since it's so bloody true.

"I don't give a shit what you think of me, alright? Just, please, put the guy out of his misery and help him. Right now, you're his only option."

"Noah—"

"I need to get to class. He'll appreciate it, Quinn, trust me. He needs you."

Thanks, Puckerman.

The silence that followed in the hallway made me wonder if my ex-sober companion had decided I wasn't worth her precious time after all, and I didn't know if it was the remnants of alcohol still in my system but I felt a tight knot deep in the base of my stomach—the kind that made me sick—and I hated the feeling. It was a sign of weakness, and I could be a million other things, but being weak was definitely not on my retaining list. This girl was going to be the death of me.

Until she walked back in.

"Before you decide to open that big mouth of yours and screw things up again, I'm letting you know that I'm only doing this because I have an obligation to the Student Council," she ranted on monotonously, her angelic features void of emotion, but damn she still looked as stunning as ever. "As much as I don't want to, I have duties to fulfill. I have a lecture in fifteen minutes. I'll come back to check on you in an hour or so."

"Quinn—"

"Save it."

"Look, I just want to apologize—"

Her gorgeous hazel eyes snapped up to meet mine, slicing through my soul like a double-bladed sword. "You already did."

"Really?"

"Last night."

To say that I was confused would be a massive understatement, and it probably showed on my face too because there was a slight twitch at the corner of her lips. "But I don't—"

"Drunken words are sober thoughts, Sam, but it's going to take a lot more for me to believe your bullshit."

* * *

I had this elaborate, well-thought-out plan in my head, but the instant I found myself staring at that damn _Tardis_ door, it all flew straight out the window. Beads of perspiration trickled down the side of my face, and the hands that I had been religiously clenching and unclenching were damp and clammy. Perhaps it was because I could practically feel Rachel's potent glare on my back all the way from fucking Mexico, but I reckoned it was a rite of passage—purgatory if you will—a test to see if I was worthy.

Whatever.

Time to man up.

Raising my closed fist, I gave a punctuated knock.

"Come in."

I grinned stupidly because I couldn't help it. The dulcet tone of her voice was my Kryptonite, even when she had been chastising me so many times before. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up in surprise—as it always did when I happened to appear unannounced—and for that split second, I wondered if this was a bad idea.

"I know you're probably going to call and check up on me in ten minutes or whatever, but I thought I'd come by instead, you know, living proof and all." I had begun to ramble, and it was a fucking embarrassment, really, because, yeah, way to go, Sam. "I'm clean."

Quinn gave a sort of tiny nod. "Good to know."

And then there was this God-awful moment of awkwardness that hung in the air, and for the first time in my entire life, I had no fucking clue what to do as I stood idly in her office. Heck, she wasn't even looking at me anymore, instead returning her attention to whatever it was on that damn laptop and continued typing as though I wasn't even in the room.

"Are you giving me the cold shoulder?"

The monotonous clacking of the keyboard halted abruptly. "Does it feel that way to you?"

I shrugged, still a tad bit nonplussed. "Yeah."

"Then I am giving you the cold shoulder."

Son of a bitch.

Sensible Sam was telling me to split and get the fuck out of there because I never took shit from anybody—more so from a girl who seemed to have a permanent pole up her ass—but I was frozen on the spot, and I didn't know how to get out of this crazy funk. It felt like a time warp, that tipsiness people had before they got bat-shit wasted, which right about now, sounded like a piece of heaven.

So fucking twisted.

"You're thinking about hitting the bottle, aren't you?"

Her question almost knocked me over. "Is reverse-psychology part of the therapy?"

Quinn jutted her chin out, not giving anything away, and it was only then that I realized what a damn great actress she really was. "Is it working?"

"Would you fucking stop answering a question with a question?"

"Why? You just did it, did you not?"

What was it with Quinn Fabray that just made me go completely loco?

"Okay, look," I jumped in heatedly, taking the necessary steps to bring me closer to her. "Clearly we've started out on the wrong foot, and if we want this to work, we'll need to start this off on a clean slate."

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the tabletop, but those eyes—those damn hazel eyes—held shades of emotions that I couldn't even begin to comprehend, and yet I didn't want to look away. "Why the sudden change, Sam?"

I knew that she knew, and she was just toying with me, dangling a ball of yarn in my face and waiting for me to take the bait. It pissed me off how she took amusement from my pathetic problems, but damn, she was one sexy manipulative bitch. Taking a gamble on my life, I bridged the gap so that our noses were barely inches apart.

"I could ask you the same, Quinn."

Her lids slanted to slits. "But you already know the answer to that."

"As I'm sure you do with mine."

"Touché."

"So, what do you say, we start over?" I asked, flashing her the most charming smile I could muster.

She didn't even hesitate, but there was a mischievous glint in her golden orbs. "On one condition."

"Name it."

Sliding an index finger between us, Quinn positioned it right smack on the center of my forehead and insolently pushed me away.

"Stay three feet away from me. Any funny business and I'll drop you like a sack of potatoes—no questions asked; you hear me?"

"Perfectly."

* * *

"What the fuck—"

Had I just stumbled into some sort of hippie alternate universe or something? I was fucking certain that I wasn't inebriated when I walked through the door and saw the strangest thing imaginable. Thin wisps of smoke rose from some sort of incense stick in the middle of the space while Puckerman sat Indian-style, eyes closed and chanting gibberish shit with a random girl that I'd never met before.

Whilst fanning the scent off my clothes, I bent over and whacked my roommate straight up the back of his dumb Mohawk.

"Dude," he yelped. "What's the deal?"

"Are you smoking weed in our room?"

He snorted. "Yeah, I fucking wish—"

"Language, Noah," the female stranger berated sternly. "And you, you're disturbing the balance in the room."

She had to be fucking kidding me.

"What the hell is she talking about?"

Puck expelled a mouthful of air, slightly defeated, and I had an inkling suspicion that he was totally pussy-whipped. "Your negative vibes are upsetting the center in the room."

I scrunched my nose up. "What does that even mean? And who are you, anyway?"

"Sam, this is Lauren Zizes—"

This was the girl from the penis drawing? Frankly, I didn't know what I had expected—a busty blonde straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue, perhaps—but surely not someone who looked like she could tackle me on the football field and break a few of my ribs. There seemed to be this permanent detachment on her hard features—one that her thick-rimmed glasses did nothing to soften—and her thin lips were set in a grim line.

"Look, I don't care if you guys are doing some weird voodoo magic shit, but I want this cleared up now, alright? I just want some peace and quiet—"

"We were meditating," Lauren snarled.

"It's a new thing that I thought I'd try," Puck elaborated, as though it was actually making any sense at all. If anything, it just made my head spin a little faster. "This sober companion thing you have going on with Quinn got me thinking, you know. Perhaps I needed to cleanse my soul or something—get rid of all the bullshit."

I stared at him; totally incredulous to the words he had just spewed out. "I don't know how to respond to that."

"I'm giving up alcohol forever."

* * *

Before I knew it, I was back at her doorstep.

Fuck me.

I hadn't wanted to come to this, but I had reached my breaking point with the fucking Zen Twins back in my room trying to set off the smoke detectors. One more second in that gas chamber and I'd probably have to equip myself with an oxygen tank.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn asked with a frown. Those deep pools of molten honey glinted with slight annoyance. "Again."

My hand went up to the nape of my neck, rubbing it sheepishly. "Puck and Lauren are meditating in my room. Well, that's what they told me, but I have reason to believe that they're participating in a cult initiation—"

I have to fucking stop doing that.

"Lauren? As in Lauren Zizes?"

A look of understanding crossed her soft features when I nodded my head, accompanied by a pitiful grimace, and I suppose Lauren had built quite a reputation for herself on campus.

"Oh, great, you've heard of her," I remarked sarcastically.

"Fine, come in," Quinn offered, stepping aside to let me in. "You can crash here for a bit but you can't stay the night. My roommate doesn't really like having people over—especially douchey-looking guys like you."

"I'm eternally grateful."

"Don't sit there," she warned before I could even rest my butt on one of the beds. "My roommate will know."

"Oh. Kay."

Who the fuck was this Nazi?

"Is this your bed?" I smirked, glancing down at the mint-green sheets and duvet, and for a split second, I allowed my imagination to stray, wondering how fucking amazing it would feel to have Quinn writhing beneath me—screaming my name to the heavens—in a mess of her own mattress. Reaching down, I subconsciously ran my fingers across the cotton fabric of her comforter.

"Get your big head out of the gutter, Sam," she snapped, snatching the covers from my hand. "I have a paper to work on, so just, you know, keep things to yourself, alright?"

As she perched herself in a swivel chair to attend to her task, I couldn't help giving her a once-over, appreciating the sufficient amount of creamy skin that was left exposed by the thin-strapped camisole and shorts. Her silky blonde hair was piled up haphazardly on top of her head—the least put-together I've ever seen her—but damn, she was still so fucking beautiful. I was vaguely aware of how much I was actually ogling her; however, she had this unfathomable magnetic pull that made it painfully impossible to look away.

I had to touch her.

I needed to touch her.

Unable to resist the temptation, I silently shuffled across the room until I was standing directly behind her. The glare from the laptop gave a haunting sort of glow as she continued typing away, completely oblivious to my hovering presence; so close, I could smell the sweet scent of her shampoo. Gingerly, I placed my palms on her slim shoulders and felt her muscles stiffen beneath my skin. Her fingers froze on the keyboard as she drew in a sharp breath.

"Sam, what are you doing?"

Her voice was a mere whisper, and my heart skipped a beat knowing that my actions were affecting her as much as it was affecting me. That thought alone sent unmistakable stirrings down south, enough to cause some discomfort in my pants.

Fuck.

"Quinn—"

"Three feet, Sam. That's what we agreed on."

Against her rigid warning, I refused to pull away.

It was just physically infeasible.

"Why won't you sleep with me?"

"Because you're not what I need."

* * *

Dr. Jones was the bane of my fucking existence. This inhuman soul—who was probably a prison guard for Hades in his previous life—had been sent to Earth to personally see to my misery in college and there was nothing I—or my dad's Goddamn money—could do about it. He knew about that too—that cocky son of a bitch—which was probably why he was staring straight at me—with that pompous-ass grin—when he announced to the class that we were having a surprise quiz that would account for credit points this semester.

As though I needed another opportunity to flunk a fucking test.

Ass-hole.

I didn't know which was stronger—the need to crucify myself from the top of the Empire State Building or the urge to punch his balls—but the animosity sizzling beneath the meager layers of hatred was starting to bubble to the surface. In the blind haze, I glared down at the questions being slapped to my face. The unfortunate ballpoint pen clutched in my hand became the victim as I pictured Dr. Jones' thick neck that I was trying to suffocate to death instead of an inanimate object.

My fucking dyslexia was acting up again, as it always did when the stress took over.

It was the last thing that I needed.

I needed something to calm my nerves.

I needed a fucking drink.

And then I thought of Quinn Fabray.

Internally, I spat a string of curses, envisioning her deep scowl—not to mention the shit that she was sure to haul at me—at the first sign of alcohol even remotely near me, and there was no stopping when I started. Her eyes—those drops of Empyrean—were sure to spear daggers straight into my chest, and it was a wrath that I didn't want to face because it would mean that she was disappointed.

Damn Quinn Fabray.

I was fast running out of time, but fuck everything else, I couldn't afford the delay, so I pushed all morbid thoughts out of my mind and dove straight into it.

Only half an hour left.

Shit.

* * *

**Can you still see the heart of me?  
****All my agony fades away  
****When you hold me in your embrace**

Completely bypassing Rachel—and blatantly ignoring her aggravating drivel—I barged into Quinn's office, still fuming from the fucking train wreck that I had to sit through mere minutes ago.

"What the—"

"You have five seconds to fix this, or else," I burst out, slamming my fists down on her desk.

She reeled back, staring at me as though I was missing my fucking head. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"

"You're supposed to help keep me sober, right? Well, here's your chance."

Those expressive eyes widened into perfect saucers when she realized the implication of my words and scrambled to shut off her laptop as she jumped to her feet. "Okay, Sam, just calm down, alright? Take a seat."

So I did, and tried to even my breathing, inhaling through my nose and counting to ten.

"Now, what's all this about?"

"That son of a bitch Jones gave the class a surprise quiz and I couldn't take the stress. God, I really, really need a drink right now," I groaned and sank deeper into the chair. "Just one sip, I swear, that's all I need."

"Sam—"

My skull was starting to pound at the first signs of an impending migraine. "This is bullshit, Quinn," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I just really, really need something to drink. It's fucking killing me."

She snatched a plastic bottle and thrust it at me. "Here, have some water."

I scorned at the damn thing. "Is this the best you can do?"

"Okay, well, we just need to take your mind off the urge, then," Quinn decided with a determined nod, and I couldn't help but find her conviction absolutely adorable. "Have you heard about the latest Baz Luhrmann movie? It has Leonardo Di Caprio and all, and the sets are beautiful—"

"Quinn, I have no fucking idea what you're going on about," I cut in.

"The Great Gatsby."

"I read that in high school and it was a fucking nightmare," I spat out darkly because she's doing a rather crappy job of distracting me. "I was half wasted with my mom's whiskey before I could even finish the first chapter. You're not helping at all."

"Sorry, sorry," she winced. "Let's find a neutral topic—music! What kind of music do you listen to?"

"Country," I replied without hesitation.

"Really?"

"What's that supposed to me?"

"Nothing," she chuckled. "I just didn't take you for the Faith Hill and Tim McGraw kind."

"Shut up."

She tilted her head then. "What got you interested?"

Uncapping the bottle of water, I took a swig before answering her question. "My uncle, actually. He was a country singer. In fact, you might know him; Paul Overstreet?"

Quinn visibly balked at the bit of trivia. "Your uncle is Paul Overstreet?"

"He used to come over and play the guitar, have some beer—Okay, that's it, Quinn," I declared, throwing my hands up in the air. "Your method officially sucks balls. All I'm seeing in front of me is a bottle of Heineken doing the fucking Can-Can with a Smirnoff and a Bacardi while a Bud Light plays the ukulele in the corner. If you have another method, now would be a good time to use it, because I really don't think I can take another second sitting here—"

But then her lips were on mine—warm and pliant and soft—and she was kissing me, effectively emptying my mind of everything else. Delicately, she cupped my face in the cradle of her palms; that gentle touch enough to jolt me out of my catatonic state as I returned the favor by tracing my tongue over the plump seams of her mouth. She tasted of fruits from Nirvana—of something so exquisite and exotic—and instantly I wanted more.

I needed more.

Oh, my fucking God.

A hard shove against my shoulders forced me back to reality, and I was suddenly aware that Quinn had pulled away.

"Erm…"

"I didn't know why I did that," she blurted out, a shade of crimson coloring her cheeks as she shuffled behind the comforts of her desk.

For a short moment, I studied her flustered appearance while she tried desperately to avoid my gaze, and despite the cockiness in my assumptions, I figured I knew why.

"You wanted to."

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did," I pressed on, circling the table till I had my chest pressed to the side of her arm. "You felt it too, don't you?"

"Felt what?"

"This passion between us—"

"Stop right there, Sam," she interjected, her eyes flashing. "Let's make one thing perfectly clear: there is nothing—absolutely nothing—going on between us. Whatever it is that you're fantasizing in that brain of yours, it's not going to happen—"

"Why are you fighting this?"

"I'm not fighting anything," she stubbornly insisted.

"Then why won't you sleep with me?"

The corners of Quinn's lips twitched upwards in a smirk. "No offense, horn dog, but you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Are you gay?"

"No," she arched a sculpted eyebrow in that irresistibly sexy way, and involuntarily, my gaze dropped to her succulent mouth. Damn, she was seriously trying to torment me. "Just not available to your libido."

"Come on, just once," I coaxed with my most charming smile. "Just to see how it is."

She leaned in teasingly and a rush of desire shot down to my shaft. Hot damn, was this seriously going to happen? Her warm breath misted over my ear; sending a wanton shiver spiraling down my spine as she whispered in a seductive tone.

"Over my dead body."

* * *

Failure wasn't an option.

It quickly became a game—seeing how far I could push it before she snapped. As dangerous as it was to play, I was wholeheartedly ready to accept the challenge. If anything, it took my mind off the alcohol for when it really hit—a temporary measure, if you will—and why the fuck not? I was having one heck of a blast trying to break down her concrete walls; the best therapy there was out there.

When the urge to consult the bottle kicked in, I ran to her and we'd curb it together.

Because Quinn Fabray was all I needed.

* * *

The fabric of her blouse rode up several inches to reveal a silver strip of skin as she tiptoed on her nude-colored pumps to attain the book high up on the shelf, and unable to help it, I found myself staring at the Playboy Bunny-worthy sight. Her ass—those pert mounds—was nothing but sensual curves in that tight ruby pencil skirt, and damn, what I would do to cop a feel right at that moment.

To have her pinned against all those books and fuck her senseless.

Jesus.

No, that was it.

"You need any help back there?"

"No," came her strangled reply. "I can handle it."

I held back a grin, still appreciating her beauty. "You sure?"

"I said I'm fine."

As if that was going to stop me.

Quinn was just way too inviting.

For a Friday afternoon, the library was relatively empty, but I suppose everybody in campus who had a semblance of a life was already out partying the weekend away like all normal college students did. In fact, I was fairly certain that even Puckerman was out sniffing around for a good lay—not that I doubted Lauren could satisfy him with her size—but that just made my conquest all the more enticing because I didn't want just any random ho.

I wanted the sassy blonde down the aisle.

Screw it.

"All you had to do was ask," I husked, reaching past her easily to pull out the leather-bound book that she needed. Skin brushed against skin, and I felt a thrill of accomplishment upon hearing the small gasp that escaped her throat at the sheer proximity. Her heady scent engulfed my senses, sending every nerve ending on overdrive when she leaned back ever so slightly, clutching the publication close to her ample breasts.

"Thanks."

I brushed the tip of my nose along the nape of her neck, and fuck, if it wasn't the most erotic thing in the entire universe.

"Anytime."

* * *

"Don't you have fantasies?"

She cocked a brow, and I knew I had her undivided attention.

Target acquired.

For the past half an hour or so—not that I was actually keeping track—I had been trying to stir up casual conversation with Quinn, but she would much rather occupy herself finishing up a fucking report than engage in an educational one-on-one with yours truly.

"Sure," she replied, completely unfazed. "I'd like to have George Clooney's babies, but I don't think that's what you're thinking of."

Target locked.

"A kinky fantasy."

Quinn made a noise somewhere between a snicker and a snort; one that sounded just as graceful as the person itself. "Wouldn't you like to know? Pervert."

"I've always wanted to take you right here on this table."

The clacking of keys halted abruptly.

Bull's eye.

* * *

Did I mention that Dr. Jones was a backwards shit-eating caveman? He couldn't seem to take that leap into the twentieth century like the rest of us and upgrade himself to using simple, mandatory technology also known as the fucking computer. To him, the typewriter hadn't even been invented yet, and I suppose if he could have it his way, he'd make all of us use a stone slab and chisel to submit our works.

"I need a three-thousand-word essay, written by hand—ink on paper—about the after effects of a solar flare and its impact on the sun's neighboring planets—including our beloved Earth—submitted to me by Thursday before noon."

It was Tuesday.

Fuck.

* * *

"Quinn, I need your help—"

A startled shriek, followed closely by a cushion flying into my face threw me back into the hallway, and before I could register what the hell was going on, the door slammed shut. Okay, well, I guess I deserved that for bulldozing into her room without announcing my arrival, but fucking hell, it was worth it because the image of Quinn Fabray in nothing but a matching pair of cream-colored lingerie would forever be imprinted into my head. It was going to be the recurring theme in my dreams for weeks to come—not that she wasn't already—and it was just icing on the cake to witness the figment of my imaginations so vividly.

Damn, those legs.

After a full minute, I recovered enough to pick my jaw from the ground and realize that I was standing stupidly in the corridor with a frilly pillow by my feet. Bending down, I retrieved it—vaguely aware of the recent strain in my pants—when the barrier opened a fraction and I was met with ten neatly pedicured toes.

Oh, crap.

What I had the pleasure of appreciating from afar was nothing compared to the view up-close. The curve of her calf was an equivalent to that of a dancer—toned, lithe and smooth as silk—and it took everything in my willpower to abstain myself from running a finger over the precise arch just to feel her skin against mine.

"What are you doing?"

I shot up to full height and felt a slight dizziness at the sudden movement; made only worse as I took in her bed-ready appearance. Clad in a pastel pink satin robe, she looked every bit the devilish angel that haunted me at night. Her blonde hair—still slightly damp from a shower—had been piled up in a messy bun with tendrils falling listlessly over her eyes, and it was single-handedly the sweetest, most innocent hint of debauchery I had ever experienced. There was a lump the size of a fucking asteroid lodged in my throat and I did my best to swallow it, but it only proved to be in vain.

"Sam!" she clapped her hands inches from my nose, jerking me out of my trance. "Stop ogling me, you ass. It's creepy."

"I need your help."

Quinn planted one hand on her hip. "With what?"

"My assignment," I replied solemnly, and to prove that I wasn't bullshitting her, I held my backpack up as evidence.

"I'm not your study buddy, Sam," she deadpanned.

"Clayton has gone over the deep end. I can't use the fucking spell check on this one because he's that much of a douche, and I have two days to write a three-thousand-word essay, so you can see how it's being a huge pain in my ass, and I don't think I can survive this sober because—"

"Okay, just calm down, alright?" And then she gave this sigh, like she knew that she would regret what she was about to do. "Come on in. My roommate's not going to be back till tomorrow night."

I had to ask, though.

"You sure?"

She nodded, sealing her fate.

"Yes."

* * *

It was a terrible idea because being in the same room with Quinn Fabray was nothing if not completely distracting to my progress, even though she was sitting a good few feet away in the swivel chair, reading some kind of book about chicken soup while I took position sprawled on her bed. Lying on my stomach, I began tapping my pen restlessly against the writing pad, debating if I ought to pester her once again with the next sentence. I mean, I was already hijacking my sober companion's evening; the last thing I wanted to do was irritate her with petty, menial facts about the rocks floating around in outer space.

We had a sort of system worked out: When certain paragraphs became a little too tedious to figure out, she'd read it aloud to me, and I'd ask her to spell long, jargon words out for me as I scribbled them down since it was only my first draft.

"You need another translation?"

I blinked. "Erm…"

She traipsed over and propped herself down on the edge of the mattress, and as she crossed her legs, I was very much aware of how the material from her slip rose up to reveal her thighs. The sight was making my mouth water—how I would love to run my tongue over her milky flesh—and then she was giving me this look.

Those fucking gorgeous eyes.

"Stop zoning out on me, will you?"

Shit.

"Sorry."

"What's going on with you, Sam? Are you okay?"

Of course, and then I just had to do it.

I needed to do it.

"No." Clearing my throat, I added, "I can't do this, all right? You're fucking killing me here."

"But I wasn't doing anything—"

"Exactly," I exclaimed, rolling over on my back to stare at her blank ceiling because it was a lot easier to talk to her without having to drown myself into those molten, golden pools of bliss. "You were just sitting in that chair, and you have absolutely no idea how incredibly gorgeous you are, and all I could think of is stripping you out of that sorry excuse of clothing and fucking you against the wall. This sexual tension between us is exhausting, Quinn, and honestly, I don't think I can—"

"Okay."

I stopped short and turned to face her. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll sleep with you."

**Don't tear me down for all I need  
****Make my heart a better place  
****Give me something I can believe**

* * *

**A/N:** Oh, my God, that was so much fun to write! LOL! All that sexual tension and suggestive foreplay, though…

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like the friendship between Rachel and Quinn! I think they make a great team! LOL! Drunk Sam was such fun to write, and yeah, he'd wanted to apologize to Quinn and he got his chance! Well, we don't exactly know Quinn's point of view at that moment, so there might be a lot of reasons why it took her so long to hit Sam when he kissed her :P Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**OhHeyAl:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad that you enjoyed the pop culture references! Yeah, I can totally picture Sam and Quinn having Doctor Who and Game of Thrones marathons! They're probably going to have heated discussions about anything and everything! Yeah, Sam, in this story, is a total douche, and I completely agree, but that's the whole reason why I wanted to write this story in his point of view. We'll get to understand why he's that way. Obviously forcing himself on Quinn is not a good move, but he definitely deserved that kick to the crotch! Hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I did writing it! Cheers!

**SamEvans17:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such wonderful comments! I'm glad that you liked the scene where Quinn totally kicked Sam's crotch! He totally deserved it! I have a couple of ideas right now, but I'd like to focus on my existing stories, such as Whisper in my Ear and The Housemate Agreement, and 4-parters only pop up when I'm stuck with either of the stories, but I'll try my best!

**Ahlisia'sFavorites:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad to know that you like the story so far! Cheers!

**Samquinnchorddianna:** Hi right back to you! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a nice review! Thank you so much for your lovely comments, and I'm flattered and honored that I've inspired you to write your own stories! I've seen that you've written one and I'll go check it out once I'm done updating this :D Cheers!

**B2stB2uty:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Quams:** LOL! Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and constantly leaving such colorful reviews! I love it! They make my day :D Yeah, we definitely need more college AU Fabrevans fics in this fandom, don't you think? Going to college just leaves for so much more possibilities in terms of scenarios and storylines! I would love to write more in this universe, of course! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Ashley:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked how the storyline is playing out so far! WIME is in progress. I've been really busy lately, and I'm only updating this story because it's done. I'll try to squeeze more time in for WIME soon, and hopefully I won't take too long updating that story :D

**Sam Evans:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate the wonderful comments! I love Puck, too! He's a great comic relief! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**OvergronFeels1:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a long review! I really appreciate the wonderful comments! LOL! Well, when I was in school, I loved Literature and English. Writing composition was my favorite homework, and I'd spend all my effort on that, and I suppose the love just stuck with me. Writing, to me, is like art and design. I'm a designer by profession, and I suppose I take that love of creating into my stories as well. I love words, I love putting words together, and I love expressing thoughts in ways people have not. I love reading too, which helps in my writing because you get to read the different styles of writing from so many authors, and you pick bits and pieces that you like and keep them with you. Anyway, I'm glad you liked how brutally forward Sam was being towards Quinn. She still is a bad-ass, in some way, she has her own opinion, and she was just trying to do her job as a sober companion. LOL! Thanks for sharing with me that story about your brother! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Gleerox:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Well, Quinn was deeply insulted and offended that Sam would try and buy her off. I suppose she's strong in other ways, you know, that she would not be so easily swayed by Sam when he hit on her. Heck, she kicked his junk! LOL!

Song used: "All I Need" by Within Temptation


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Hi guys! Apologies for the delayed update! I've been really busy at work and with a dance recital coming up, so I've been swamped. Anyway, here's the final installment for this story! It's been an absolute pleasure!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**All I Need**

**Part 4**

**Don't tear it down, what's left of me  
****Make my heart a better place**

Did she just say what I fucking thought she said?

"Are you teasing me again?"

I had to ask because I was an idiot that way—to elude myself with fantasies that I wanted to hear for my own benefit—and perhaps to convince myself that I wasn't on high, but Quinn stayed unmoved. She had that look on her angelic face, paired with that contrasting devilish glint in her gorgeous hazels, and if she were anything but serious right that moment, I would probably self-combust into dust particles. The knot tightened in my chest as I watched the resolve appear on her features.

"You don't think I'm that cruel now, do you?" she smirked, and I swore that beneath all that finesse, she was a closet vixen.

"Don't tempt me," I drawled.

She cocked her head to the side in coquettish amusement. "Are you going to make a move on me or not?"

A million and one wicked things sprung into my head in a pornographic compilation of positions; I'd be damned if she was actually game to try them out. Somewhere in the depths of my shallow conscience, I was still in disbelief that this perfect specimen of a woman was willing to let me fuck her—no frills, no questions—there was no way in this fucking planet was I going to be a stupid jackass and turn it down.

"With pleasure."

I dove in with a determined purpose and captured her soft and succulent lips between my slightly chapped ones, clamping my mouth hard and sure over hers. The sudden onslaught of headiness—accompanied by the wanton gasp emitting from her throat—sent shockwaves down my spine as I twirled my fingers into her silky blonde locks—releasing her hair from the confines of the elastic band—to pull her head closer. There was so much to consume, so much of Quinn to devour, it was an appetite impossible to be satiated so easily. Yet, such a delicacy ought to be savored in its finest.

I was fucked.

She gave a whimper; a sound I could only reciprocate with a low growl, and when I felt the heavenly surface of her tongue brushing against the seam of my mouth—probing brazenly and impatiently for entrance—I knew that I was in some deep shit. If I had known that chocolate and soda was such a deadly combination, I would've been left for the afterlife a long time ago, but Quinn should patent it with a warning label because there wasn't a single guy in the universe who would be able to survive such an intoxicating taste. If I ever lived to see to the end of this, I was officially calling myself Ares.

I drank her in, delving myself wholeheartedly into the task, kissing her with everything I had. The amount of self-restraint in me was fast waning, but I was contented, and I could've stayed like that forever—a shocking discovery considering how badly I want to fuck her right now—though the need to explore every other crevice of her delicious body quickly took over. Reluctantly, I detached my lips, only to trail them down the slope of her neck between gentle nibbles and tender pecks.

Her hot breath on my ear felt like the first hit of buzz I usually got after three shots of vodka, and it was sending me to the edge of the cliff, but she was making these sounds and I couldn't begin to describe what they were doing to my person. Restlessly, I allowed my hands to wander on their own accord until they began fiddling with the knot that held the robe together.

"Quinn…" I grated out, still in that kaleidoscopic daze. "Can I—"

"Less talking, more doing, Sam," she whispered, shifting tempestuously in my hold.

Message received.

With one sharp tug, the curtain of satin fell open, and there they were; those matching pair of cream-colored lingerie in stark display for my ultimate viewing pleasure. Christmas came early this year, for sure. Her milky-white skin glowed against the intricate lace that held those perfect breasts, and fuck, if this was the best gift ever. I was blatantly ogling her for God knew how long, before she apparently found it ridiculous and unsnapped the clasp with a roll of her eyes, allowing the straps of her bra to casually slide down the length of her arm. As soon as it dropped to the floor, all hell broke loose.

I pounced on her with a gait of a predator just about to ravage its prey, sending her toppling backwards into the mattress. Somehow, between the struggle and the fall, she had managed to pull my shirt off; a fucking magician. Her nimble hands fumbled with the fly of my jeans, and I let out a strangled hiss when her fingers brushed against the hardened bulge straining in my boxers.

"Fuck, Quinn."

The instant I was freed of all my confines, I flipped us over so that she was situated comfortably on my pelvis, effectively cradling my throbbing erection between her moist heat, and before I could even think to catch my breath, she was sinking down onto my manhood, sheathing herself into me so deeply, if she were to move even a quarter of an inch, honest to God it would've been the end.

"Quinn—"

I gripped onto her hips, my fingers digging into her skin.

"What?" she asked huskily; the sultriness in her tone was burning like a stroke of fire.

"This is going to end way too soon if you don't just fucking stop what you're doing."

Her lips curled up as she ground down; a mistress of seduction.

"Then I suggest you start preparing for round two."

* * *

My half-written essay glared mockingly back at me, deriding me with all the chicken scratch on the page. Still on my first draft—barely any progress from the day before—and the frustration was starting to piss my off. For what it was worth, I had been parked in this damn library chair since nine in the morning; the huge-ass clock on the wall rudely reminded me that I had completely skipped on lunch.

As if on cue, my stomach gave an obnoxious growl—a fucking earthquake in my digestive system—and only served to be another painful joke that I was nowhere near done with my essay.

Fuck Clayton Jones.

Then again, that motherfucker had always been a constant pain in my hole, and I would bet my beloved Porsche that he made mentally torturing me his silent mantra the moment he woke up every God-forsaken day.

No, the only variable in my pathetic excuse of a life right now, was Quinn Fabray.

The idea was to screw her once just to get her out of my system—drain the sexual tension from my hormones—but then, all of a sudden I couldn't stop thinking of round two—how it was just as mind-blowing as round one—and I realized that I was utterly fucked because I couldn't get those shapely legs and that firm ass out of my damn head.

A harsh vibration jolted me out of my reverie, and I silently spat a curse before fishing the cellphone from my pocket, ready to yell at whomever it was at the other end of the line; fuck library etiquette. The name that flashed on the screen, however, sent blood whooshing down south all over again.

Shit.

"Hey, Quinn."

"Just doing my checks, Sam," she said, albeit rather nonchalantly. If I hadn't known any better, I would think that she was bored. "You okay, there?"

"I'm fine."

Except for the fact that I was spotting a massive boner in the school library.

There were sounds of paper shuffling about; she was probably in her office. "How's your essay coming along?"

"Great," I replied, suppressing the meager whine that was threatening to surface in my tone. "I'm almost done actually."

There was a pregnant pause.

"No, you're not," she surmised knowingly, the laughter evident in every syllable, and I was beginning to find her perception all too fatal for my liking. "You're still stuck where you were yesterday."

Scowling down at the unfinished assignment, I delivered a profanity up to Mrs. Jones for giving birth to the spawn of Satan. "Yeah, that plan we had; it officially sucks, okay?"

"Oh, yeah? Which part? Because as I recall, you had no complains about my sucking."

That little bitch.

My fingers curled a little tighter around the device, almost crushing it in my grasp, as the explicit image—plucked from the many porno-worthy moments that played during our sexcapade—popped inappropriately behind my closed lids. Fuck, if she kept this up, there was no salvaging left in the situation; I would blow with her listening in on the other side.

Fuck it.

I needed her.

Now.

"I'm coming over."

"Is 'coming' the operative word, here?" she all but purred in my ear.

"You bet your gorgeous ass it is."

* * *

On paper, screwing Quinn Fabray on top of her office desk would've been an award-winning scene for breath-taking cinematography, but in reality, it was only respectful to Rachel and the hundred miserable others outside if we—or rather, I—exercised some tact and not have her screaming for me with a bunch of hormone-induced students listening in; according to my sober companion anyway. I couldn't give a flying fuck; in fact, I would so gladly bang her in the lobby just to let the whole fucking world know that I was tapping the finest ass on campus.

"Finish the damn essay and then we'll go, okay?"

That was the deal.

"I'm about ready to burst, Quinn," I grumbled. "Jones and his fucking assignment can wait."

She barely lifted her gaze from the laptop, her expression as flat as an airplane runway. "No, it can't. You and I both know that I'm not buying your bullshit, and you care more about that class than you're willing to admit, so as your sober companion, I'm proposing a sabbatical until you're done with it."

Fuck, she was going to be the death of me.

I frowned, wondering if she would sock me in the nuts again if I completely ignored her policy and have her right there and then. "You're not serious about that, right?"

"I'm more than serious, Sam." Her face gave nothing away. "Why? Can't you handle a bit of heat?"

Narrowing my eyes to slits, I pressed my palms down on the tabletop and leaned in till our noses were but a scant of breath apart. Her hazel orbs flared like scorching flames—intense and feisty; challenging me with every fiber of her being—and it was exactly how I liked her to be. Eliminating what remains of the space between us, I sealed her opened lips with mine, kissing her long and hard.

"Will that suffice?"

"For now."

* * *

It was amazing how much of a motivation the prospect of sex was; a relatively effective method of sorts, especially when the object of all my desires sat primly behind that computer of hers, looking every bit the ravishing siren between the sheets. The temptation was excruciating, but I wasn't going to push my fucking luck with this—not today.

"Done," I announced triumphantly, tossing my pen down and jumping to my feet. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Not so fast, cowboy," she arched an eyebrow. "I still need to check it—"

"You can do that after."

"I don't think—"

I slammed her laptop shut. "We go now, Quinn. I'll fuck you right here in your office, don't test me."

She swallowed thickly and nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

With one final thrust, a ripple of pleasure tore through my entire body as I pulled out to empty myself on her flat stomach in spews of powerful white ribbons. Spent and panting for air, I collapsed unceremoniously next to her and wondered if I would die of a heart attack the next time round. She fucking made me work for it, too, but I'll be damned because there was nothing I would change about that. Perhaps I should start visiting the gym again, what with all the muscles she was activating, and that was just so fucking hilarious; not to mention how Puck would have a field day if I ever mentioned such foolishness.

"Are you going to clean that up or should I just use your shirt instead?"

Grunting from the unnecessary effort, I turned to face her and stopped short when I saw just how fucking gorgeous she looked with that post-coital glow and mussed-up hair; enough to render me speechless for a good five seconds before she snapped me out of it with a gentle slap to my cheek.

"What?"

She gestured down to the mess on her torso. "You did this, so…"

"So?"

"Clean up your jizz, you idiot," she retorted.

"Alright, alright," I sighed with a dramatic roll of my eyeballs. "You're always so fucking bossy after sex."

She whacked me again; that she-demon, and I wasn't sure if I appreciated physical abuse outside of all that kinky shit. Whatever, because straight after, there was this satisfied grin on her lips that made the tiny speck of pain so worth it.

Leaving the bed, I spotted a box of Kleenex, but just as I was about to wipe her up, she took the tissue paper from my hands and finished the task herself.

"I can't ever understand why they're always so sticky," she mumbled incoherently, like an afterthought, and it took me a while to figure out what the hell she meant.

"Do you always just make random observations?"

"Shut up," she quipped; tossing the wads of soggy tissue into the trashcan that was so conveniently located underneath the nightstand. "You always talk too much, you know that?"

Snorting in reply, I flopped back down on the bed and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

"Why did you agree to sleep with me?"

"Didn't take you for a pillow-talker, Sam."

I turned to face her again. "No, seriously. Why did you?"

She spent quite a bit of time gnawing on her bottom lip—her hands folded and tucked neatly beneath the side of her head—figuring out what to say, and as this dreadful sinking feeling started gathering in the pit of my chest, I reckoned I probably didn't want to hear her answer.

"Okay, fuck it, never mind. Forget I even asked—"

"I felt it."

I blinked, trying to register those three barely audible words.

"Felt what?"

A flicker of recognition crossed those twin pools of molten lava as a smile slowly graced her features. "This passion between us—"

And then I kissed her to cut her off, fusing her mouth hotly with mine.

It was all I needed.

* * *

At ten to twelve on that fateful fucking Thursday, I carelessly dropped the completed piece of shit-storm—neatly bound, single-lined spacing and meticulously proofread, courtesy of one Quinn Fabray—on Dr. Jones' desk. Glancing around at the musty old office, I scorned at the outdated décor, and I reckoned it was no wonder his wife had skipped into the sunset with some sophisticated European musician; the dude had no fucking taste.

"Finally on time, I see."

I whirled around just as Lord Bland-and-Boring himself pranced in self-importantly with a cock-sure swagger that should be illegal on someone so mundane.

"I figured you'd be impressed," I riposted sarcastically.

He regarded me placidly, and I had never wanted to fucking stab someone so badly in my life before. "Can't say that I am, Mr. Evans."

Meeting his even stare head-on, I raised an eyebrow.

"You will be."

* * *

Puck was doing that weird meditating shit again in the room, but as I stepped into the thin blanket of haze, I was suddenly vaguely aware of the vulgar soundtrack playing in the background. Throaty over-exaggerated moans and lecherous screams rang in my ears like fingernails to a fucking chalkboard, and it was fast giving me a migraine. God, could someone please just shut those damn sluts up before I went deaf?

I squinted through the wisps of smoke at the television, and of course, one of Puck's favorite porn movies was plugged in to full volume. A busty brunette was being fucked against the side of a Porsche—completely ruining all hundred and one fantasies I had of taking Quinn on top of my prized car—with a boob hanging out of her scrap of silver bikini top.

"The hell, Puck?" I spat out, scrambling to locate the damn remote. "Are you fucking meditating to porn?"

"It's called curbing the urge, Sam," he replied monotonously. "Perhaps you'd like to give it a shot, considering how your dick seems to be permanently attached to Quinn's vagina—"

"Thanks, but no thanks. Me and my dick are happy just the way it is." Rummaging beneath the beanbag chair, my fingers finally identified the missing object. "What's all this bullshit about, anyway? Is Lauren not cutting it for you?"

He heaved a sigh full of pent-up sexual frustration but kept his eyes tightly shut, so I reckoned I'd do him—and the entire dorm—a huge favor and switched off the nefarious screwing rampage on the screen. My ears and throbbing skull were eternally grateful.

"It's shark week."

* * *

**I tried many times but nothing was real  
****Make it fade away, don't break me down  
****I want to believe that this is for real  
****Save me from my fear  
****Don't tear me down**

"When did you first decide that alcohol was your solution to everything?"

I froze; the muscles between my shoulders stiffened from the unexpected punch to the darkened pits in my fucking gut. Unprepared for such a bitter onslaught, I felt my jaw tighten as I gritted my teeth in an attempt to tame the beast that was threatening to explode, and tried my absolute best to resist the pressing urge to toss Quinn off her own bed.

"You okay?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I informed her darkly, glaring holes at the wall.

Regardless, she was my sober companion, not my fucking psychologist, and damn it, she had no right getting her nose up in my dirty business—not when it didn't entirely concern her. I had a file for that; one that I knew she had probably read a million times, but it still wasn't any less of a slap to my face.

"I just want to understand you better."

That fucking did it.

Ripping my arms from around her, I flung the covers off our naked, fully indulged bodies, and slipped my boxers on, just needing to get the fuck out of here before I did something that I might later regret.

"Sam?"

Imprudently, I ignored her and busied myself scrambling to put my shirt on.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

The jeans were next to be worn, and even as I fumbled with the damn buttons on my fly, I was all too aware of her presence behind me, pulsating and overwhelming to unnerving heights; it was a lot to swallow in such a short period of time. But then I felt her hand pressed against my back, and I knew that I had to fucking split.

"Sam—"

"Stop treating me like a fucking test subject, Quinn," I flared up, spinning around to properly face her startled expression. Her eyes, wide with concern, stared right into my soul, and all of a sudden, I was terrified. "If I'd wanted that, I would've gone to my mom's therapist. We worked because we didn't talk."

I might as well have killed a fucking puppy with the varying shades of hurt marring her angelic features, but a part of me—the bigger, unresolved part that would always be a shadowed weight—had the defensive walls built so high, I couldn't help being that motherfucking son of a bitch that people saw me for.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't, Quinn. Just don't."

"But, I—"

Raising my hand, I silenced her once again.

"I don't need this right now."

**Don't tear me down for all I need  
****Make my heart a better place**

* * *

Quinn still called on scheduled times to check on me, but conversations were always brief—not more than two pathetic sentences at a time—and I reckoned I should fucking congratulate myself on a job well done; sarcasm implied.

Fucking perfect.

Just what I needed.

* * *

"I can't understand why you're always such a shit-eating asshole to Quinn."

My bastard of a roommate just had to fucking bring it up in the middle of a _Doctor Who_ marathon, and I had half the wit to dump the entire bowl of popcorn on his Mohawk. Puck barely even flinched, his eyes still glued to the television, even as mine bore laser-like beams into his thick skull, and I wondered if anybody would miss him if I buried his whale of a body underneath school property.

"Who told you?"

He languidly took a sip of his soda. "Lauren."

"And how the hell did she know?"

"Dude, she's Quinn's roommate."

I narrowly missed choking on a fucking kernel—God forbid I would die on a chip of dry Styrofoam—and I reached over to snatch the can of Coke from the floor.

"You're kidding," I wheezed out, taking a couple of huge gulps to wash the blockage down my throat.

Puck had that amused self-satisfied smirk on his face as he scoffed. "How could you fucking not know that?"

"Because I didn't fucking ask, and truthfully, I don't fucking care."

"You do," he insisted, finally sliding his gaze to meet mine. "You're just too much of a selfish narcissist to admit it."

* * *

I was barely listening to a single fucking word Dr. Jones was babbling on about at the front of the class because for all I knew, he could be rambling on about the ever-expending reasons why being a musician shouldn't even be considered a career, and basically, I was sick and tired of his bitchy shit. That ship with his ex-wife had sailed and someone should tell him to move on; nobody in this damn room was even remotely interested in his bad Nicholas Sparks rip-off.

"And of course, I have, here with me, your graded assignments."

Yeah, whatever.

He made his rounds handing out works respectively to each student—a habit of every teacher that I so fucking hated, especially when they found absolute pleasure in flashing us those sympathetic grimaces when we fail to make a decent grade—and I sunk lower in my seat, just dreading the moment till he stopped right in front of me.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Evans," he droned on, his face void of emotion whatsoever. "I have to say that I'm genuinely surprised."

Choosing deliberately not to acknowledge his statement, I glared straight ahead at that gigantic clock on the wall. I suppose he realized that he wasn't getting anything out of me, so after a beat, he placed the damn essay on my table, and then walked away to harass some other kid.

I dared to glance down.

A.

Holy fucking shit.

* * *

My cellphone rang right on time, as it had always been, and her name flashed like neon signs in Las Vegas. As much as I hated to admit it—and risk sounding like a fucking desperate lovesick puppy—I had been waiting impatiently for her to call; if anything, she deserved to know, after all that she had done to help me with that nightmare.

"Hello?"

"Just checking," she replied robotically from the other end of the line.

"I got an 'A'."

She paused, the sound of her breathing the only indication that she hadn't all but slammed her phone down, and I wondered what she looked like at the moment. God, it had been too fucking long since I'd last laid my eyes on her gorgeous face, or felt those silky tendrils of gold between my fingers, or ran my fingers down her soft skin; fuck, I missed her—all of her.

"Congratulations," she spoke at last, her voice tinkling like wind chimes. "Don't celebrate too much. I'll be checking on you in two hours."

"I'll be waiting."

* * *

It was Puck's fucking brilliant idea to invite Lauren Zizes to our bros night out. Sure, it entailed sitting in a greasy booth in a shabby diner a couple of blocks away from campus and inhaling deep-fried potatoes to our hearts' content, but it was tradition—one that he had ruined unmistakably the second I saw the bespectacled brunette strut into the eatery with a scowl of absolute disdain on her lips.

"You're upsetting my balance, Noah," she growled in greeting.

Was she still on her period?

"Sam Evans," she began curtly. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pound you into a pulp."

"Calm down, Lauren," Puck calmly replied, edging in to grant her a little more room. "He knows that he's being a fucking douche—"

"Language."

"Sorry."

I couldn't hold back the roll of my eyeballs, or perhaps I didn't want to. They can both rot in hell for all I care; ganging up on me like this was a pussy move. Puck was going to do his manly shit in front of his little—or not so little—girlfriend, but I wouldn't be the object of their fucking amusement.

"You're the third person here, Lauren, so I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself, alright?"

She gave me the stank glare. "Quinn was stupid to have accepted you again—she said that you were worth it—but I knew you were trouble when you walked in."

"Why don't we keep Taylor Swift out of this, yes?"

* * *

Standing in front of that fucking door again felt like a tight slap from the hands of an incapable idiot, but I reckoned that was probably the most accurate way to describe William Schuester. Why else would he see me if it weren't to be the bearer of more bad news? Either way, he didn't deserve my Goddamn courtesy, so I barged in without bothering to knock.

"Excuse me—"

"Save the formalities, William, and just get on with your shit."

He gestured towards the empty chair in front of him, his plain features surprisingly neutral. "Take a seat."

No way in fucking hell was I going to fall into that, and I was insulted that he'd take me for some other idiot on campus. His half-assed attempt at breaking the tension wasn't fooling me at all—I was too much of a regular visitor to his office to be sucked into its false pretense of comfort—it would be a rookie mistake to accept.

"I expect this to be quick."

Those thick eyebrows twitched for a second before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the surface of that huge-ass desk. "Alright, well, you're dismissed of a sober companion; effective immediately."

The fuck?

I must've heard him wrong.

"What?"

I suppose it wasn't the reaction he was looking for because the straight-laced prick tilted his head to the side and started regarding me with a murky mixture of confusion and amusement. "I've heard positive feedback from your lecturers, especially Dr. Jones, and Quinn updates me regularly of your sobriety. You have matured, Sam, and frankly, I have reason to believe that you are capable of handling yourself without hourly supervision."

"Wait, does that mean—"

"You're released of your penance."

Son of a bitch.

Was this supposed to be good news?

"Have a good day, Mr. Evans."

* * *

"I lost her."

Puck swallowed the last of his sandwich as I plopped down next to him on a stray bench. The scorching such was beating down mercilessly; I could already feel the first trickles of perspiration trail down the back of my neck, and for all fucking reasons, I wondered why he couldn't find a Goddamn shady area underneath a tree. Not everybody tanned like he did.

"Who?" he asked with his mouth full—the son of a bitch never did have the best table manners—before gulping down half of his canned soda.

"Quinn. I lost her."

"I know. Lauren told me."

I glared into his smug face, a smirk stretched wide across his lips. "Is there anything that sarcastic hippie didn't tell you?"

That sneaky little bastard knew something.

"She didn't need to tell me anything that I don't already know."

And I fucking hated it.

* * *

My cellphone was silent—too silent for my liking—and all I wanted was for it to fucking ring.

Just once.

Just to know that she still cared.

* * *

Brittany wanted to see me; said there was something urgent that she needed to tell in person, that apparently couldn't fucking wait. I should've hung up on her—the night of that bitter break-up still etched deep in my male ego—but she sounded skittish, and I remembered praying up to the heavens that she wasn't pregnant with my illegitimate kid.

The warm coffee drained down my throat as the dark liquid soothed the sandpaper in my mouth, and my ex-girlfriend was half an hour late. People were trickling in and the café was starting to grate on my last hanging nerve. Some redhead bimbo was yapping on about her pretentions-ass non-fat skimmed milk latte with a dash of almond in that flatly nasal voice, and she was a comment away from having my long black doused all over her dress.

But then I heard her.

"An espresso to go, please."

Instinctively, I turned, and even though all I could see were the soft contours of her waist and ass, there was no denying whose they belonged to. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft, tempting curls, and when she angled her head just so, I knew there was no mistaking Quinn Fabray in all her radiance and beauty.

Fuck, she was absolutely gorgeous.

The barista slid her beverage across the counter with a mega-watt shit-eating grin that was all too wide to seem friendly, and I had to resist the need to march over and punch his fucking teeth in when I noticed the slight brush of his finger against her skin. Seething with a sudden burst of fury, I focused on trying to fucking kill him with my death glare. Who the fuck did he think he was, touching Quinn like that? Frankly, I blamed evolution because if the Neanderthals would have it, I reckoned the dude would have had his head already bashed against a boulder.

Before I could continue conjuring up a million and one ways to dispose of his body, she spun around gracefully, and her stunning hazel eyes met mine. Time stopped for all I knew—cheesy clichéd movie moment and sorts—and as we froze staring at each other, I willed my damn mouth to say something—any fucking thing—to her.

"Hey."

Smooth.

"Hi," she smiled, even if it was a little strained. "I was just getting coffee."

I nodded wordlessly.

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm meeting a friend."

No point elaborating on the details.

We stood there awkwardly for a couple more seconds, and I was racking my brains, hoping to keep the conversation going.

"I should get going," she spoke up eventually, breaking the moment. "I guess I'll see you around."

And then she was gone, and I was hit with this cold, sinking feeling—an emptiness that lingered whenever she wasn't around—that I was royally screwed.

* * *

"So, Brittany told me something at the café earlier on."

Even though he seemed completely engrossed in that graphic novel of his—Marvel, never DC—Puck made a motion for me to continue, but I decided that I needed his full attention, so I snatched the volume out of his hands and carelessly tossed it on his unmade bed.

"The fuck, Sam—"

"Quinn was there."

"Okay."

He didn't fucking get it; that shallow dimwit.

"I just haven't seen her since—"

"You were a fucking jerk to her?" my roommate finished defiantly with a pointed quirk of his eyebrow. He could be a fucking pain in my ass if he wanted to—it was that Mohawk and those leather boots—and I wondered if Lauren would still shag him if I shaved off his pride and joy.

"She was just so—"

"Beautiful?"

"Can you fucking stop that?" I snapped, the irritation rising with each ticking second. "God, you're really shit at this, you know that?"

"Was that what Brittany told you?"

I scrunched my nose in confusion. "Brittany?"

"You started off with saying that she told you something," he deadpanned. "What was it?"

"Oh, she's gay."

* * *

I found myself passing by the damn Student Affairs building more often now than I did when Quinn had been my sober companion, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult each time to ignore the gravitational pull that was constantly pulling me in. My gaze would stray a little longer at the door while my head would scream for me to get my shit together and man up like a fucking dude, but in the end, I would walk right by and curse my cowardly ways.

"Okay, you need to stop doing that, Sam Evans."

"Jesus," I yelped with a started jump and whirled around to find that Rachel girl smirking up at me, one hand perched on her hip. "The fuck are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she quipped. "You're the one who's been lurking around like a creep for the past week."

Son of a bitch.

"Have you been spying on me?"

The brunette jutted her chin out audaciously. "That depends. Have you been spying on Quinn?"

"I wasn't spying—you know what, I don't owe you a fucking explanation."

Why couldn't girls just mind their own damn business?

* * *

**Don't tear me down for all I need  
****Make my heart a better place  
****Give me something I can believe**

I was back at her doorstep.

Those sparkling hazel eyes widened just a little bit as wisps of blonde bangs tumbled down her forehead in a dance of waves. She hugged her satin robe closer to her body, and it took everything in my person not to ogle at her as though she was a fucking piece of fresh meat. Taking a huge gulp of air, I located my voice.

"Ask me."

Quinn blinked, her long lashes fluttering. "Ask you what?"

This was it; no turning back now.

"That one thing I never really answered."

She paused, hesitating at the question, and in those expressive twin pools of chocolate, I could see how torn she was with her decision. Gingerly, I reached out to take her hand—lacing her fingers through my calloused ones—and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"When did you first decide that alcohol was your solution for everything?"

"When I saw how well it worked for my mom."

A fucking pain ripped through my chest from the reluctant confession, and it hurt like a bullet train, but I knew that it would be worth it. Swallowing the hard lump lodged in my throat, I darted my tongue out to wet my chapped lips and reminded myself that this was my last chance if I wanted to salvage anything with Quinn. If I grew a chicken's ass and ran, she would never forgive me.

"I was twelve when my parents started having problems," I began, choking my words out as best as I could. "My dad was having an affair with his secretary—that motherfucking son of a bitch—and my mom found out one day. I knew she was devastated, but she didn't yell, didn't cry, and didn't even bother filing for a divorce. I wanted to kick his sorry ass; I really did, because nobody deserved to be cheated on, no matter how much of a snobby bitch my mom was."

Quinn circled her thumb soothingly against my skin and it felt nice to have her there—really there—after the shitty week I had.

"Anyway, she started drinking her problems away," I continued, scuffing my shoe on the carpeted floor. "And it was like, she completely forgot about his betrayal. She looked fine—normal, even and she started going out again to cocktail parties and private auctions—and to me, it was magic water, you know. Drink to numb the world."

"Come here."

I barely heard her, but as she wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her chin on my shoulder, I couldn't help myself from trapping her in my hold and dropping a chaste kiss to the top of her head.

"Is there anything you need me to do for you right now?"

"No."

She pulled back, just slightly; an adorable pout on her lips. "Really?"

Smiling down at her, I reached my hand up to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, and for the life in me, I couldn't look away.

"You're all I need."

**Don't tear it down, what's left of me  
****Make my heart a better place**

* * *

**A/N:** The End! Well, there you go! It's been really fun writing this story—takes me into a whole different style and a whole different perspective, too! Hope you've enjoyed it!

**Stelena and fabrevans forever:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad you're pleased with the previous chapter! I hope you've enjoyed this ending! Cheers!

**Ahlisia'sFavorites:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked chapter 3! Apologies for the long wait for this update, but I hope you've enjoyed it! Cheers!

**Dosqueen67:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Don't sweat it on not reviewing chapter 2 :D No harm done! I know how technology can be a bit of a pain sometimes. I'm glad to know that you liked the previous chapters! The sexual tension was super fun to write; I'm glad I made it believable for you! LOL! Yeah, I try not to get too attached to my 4-parters as well, but for me, some stories just didn't need dragging out, which was why I did them as such. Don't be sad, though, I promise, there will be more 4-parters to come, yeah? Cheers!

**Quams:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad you liked that cliffhanger! LOL! Well, that raw, intense sex you were asking for; hopefully it showed through in this chapter! Hehe! Hope you've enjoyed this!

**Agronderwood:** Hi there! Thank you for reading and leaving a review! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Samquinnchorddianna:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad to know that you liked the previous chapter, and yeah, I had so much fun playing the flirting game between Sam and Quinn! Hope you've enjoyed this ending! Cheers!

**J. :** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a nice, lengthy review! Such lovely comments bring warmth and joy all over :D I'm glad you noticed the slight change in Sam's behavior. Yeah, he's still a potty mouth and what not, but he grew up a bit, I suppose. I think it's also because we don't get to see this side of Sam in the show, so it's one of those things that just speaks for itself. I'm glad you like the back and forth banter between Sam and Quinn! Those were really fun to write! And Lauren as a hippie was hilarious in my head, but I reckoned I had yet to feature her properly in any of my other stories, so I gave her a cameo in this one. I think Puck is just a really supportive friend, even though he's rough around the edges sometimes. He genuinely cares for Sam, and he wants to help his roommate get better, so he's doing the same for himself. Hope you've enjoyed the ending! Cheers!

**OvergronStan:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I'm flattered, and really honored! Well, I hoped I haven't killed you too hard with the sexual tension, I mean, I wouldn't want to be held liable for unintentional murder. LOL! Thank you so much for your lovely comments, and seriously, it's because of readers who show that they care for the fandom and appreciate my work in contributing to it, which keeps me motivated to continue writing! The Fabrevans fandom is wonderful, I love it! I love Sam and Quinn, and I want to keep them alive as much as you do, so this is just my way of doing so. I'm just lucky that I have a bunch of people who support me :D Cheers!

**SportyGirl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you like the story so far, and I hope you've enjoyed this update, as well as the ending!

**Ashley:** Hello! Thank you for reading and reviewing! Apologies if I hadn't been updating as fast as you'd like me to, but I've been busy at work, and I'm swarmed with things to do. Aside from work, I also have a dance recital coming up, so trainings and rehearsal have been physically draining. Glad you liked the sexual tension; that was fun to write! Hope you've enjoyed this last part! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it, and you never fail to put a smile on my face! Puck and Quinn never had Beth. In fact, Puck was quite mean to Quinn in high school. He gave her slushie facials, so let's just say that they weren't the best of friends. Yeah, Sam goes to Quinn in a few aspects, I mean, he needs her. She's his rock to keep him grounded, to keep his nose out of trouble. Hope you've enjoyed this ending! Cheers!

**B2stB2uty:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Glad you liked the tension between Sam and Quinn! I suppose this chapter answers your question as to why Quinn decides to give into Sam, yeah? Cheers!

**SamEvans17:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate your wonderful comments! Gives me such warm tingles :D I hope you've enjoyed this last chapter!

**Guest (1):** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this ending!

**OvergronFeels1:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a detailed review! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you liked all those moments! It's been a blast delving into Sam's mind and exploring his thoughts because he definitely has no filter sometimes. Good to know that you liked that scene between Sam and Quinn when he starts rambling on because it shows that he's sometimes not as tough as he'd like people to think. He's insecure and vulnerable at times. Yeah, unfortunately, this is the last part—Mirrors was a rare exception—but I hope you've enjoyed this bit! Cheers!

**LorMenari:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Guest (2):** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Hope you've enjoyed this! Cheers!

Song used: "All I Need" by Within Temptation


End file.
